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Son liark ISltmm 







CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

A Little People 297 

A Lying Press 245 

A Memory 358 

A Moral Tale 241 

A New Pleasure 302 

A Prayer 236 

A Prelude 323 

A Statistical Poem 340 

Adeline 300 

Alice 258 

An Evil Book 321 

Big Game 339 

Call Him a Poet 213 

Can This Be Home, Sweet Home? 355 

Clara O'Dee 306 

Columbia 335 

Drifting 233 

Duty 251 

Enough ! Strike Deep and Let Me Go 343 

Eros Seeking 203 

Fancy's Bark 356 

Fate 267 

Florence 138 

Fortune Sick 379 

Four Books 224 



iv Contents. 

PAGE 

Gladness 367 

Gone is a Strenuous Spirit 315 

Gone, One More Faithful Friend 311 

Hannah Moore 240 

Hate 243 

Her Beauty is a Climbing Rose 342 

Her Fortune 271 

Her Step is Music 227 

Honor 200 

How soon a Nation can Forget, Lord 277 

Hypocrisy 221 

I Dreamt the Stars are Characters 257 

I Know, I Know 281 

I Know Where the Sunbeams Go 361 

1 Like to Think This Best of Worlds 247 

I Love My Country Not the Less 329 

I Loved You for Your Beauty First 285 

1 Saw Her Lovely Face But Once 388 

I Think : I Know 330 

I Thought to Write My Name in Gold 249 

I Would Not Hurt Her Little Hand 286 

If 327 

If Genius were but Catching 296 

If Half the Riches Spent on War 351 

If She Should Die To-Night 266 

Ignorance 313 

In These, Our Times 209 

lone 4 

Isabel 172 

Keats 170 

Kiss Me, Dear, and Let's Forget 290 

Lake Tahoe 322 

Laughology 204 

Lenore 354 

Liberty Lives: Her Soldier is Dead 368 

Life's failures 281 

Lines 294 

Live On, Old Tree 20S 

Love 369 



Contents v 

PAGE 

Love's Pyrography 25G 

Luther at Waitburg 24S 

Make Room for Youth 217 

Mammon 346 

Marriage 348 

May Such Books Perish 243 

Motley 201 

My Heart is with My Bees To-Day 2(>;) 

My Life was a Round of Golden Days 314 

My Love a Constant Beauty is 223 

My Love is Full of Pretty Ways 264 

My Sweet Thoughts are My Daughters 307 

My Queen 370 

Not Always 287 

Nothing Comes of It 279 

Now Morn upon the Rosy Hills 288 

O Darken the Window 220 

O Don thy Kerchief 338 

O For a Sparkling Bowl of Laughter 246 

O Ghost, I Have Thee Now 295 

O God, if Ever We Had Cause for Fear 215 

O Lass of the Land of the Listed Lance 229 

O Poet, Build for Me a Splendid Home 202 

O Poet, Open Wide the Gate of Dreams 318 

Set a Window , 205 

O She is a Poem 299 

O She is Fair to Look Upon 387 

O Sing Me a Song of Mv Native Land 331 

O Take that Picture from the Wall 214 

O That Good Ink 245 

O Thou Who Art Divinely Gifted 234 

O When Shall Dawn that Splendid Day? 237 

Ode to Liberty Bell 238 

Ode to the Airship 353 

Of Many Fools, I Loathe the Most 289 

Old Dan Miller 261 

One of the Millions 381 

Out of My Brain the Music Has Fled 304 

Over tlie Hills to the Poorhouse 374 



vi Contents. 

PAGE 

Palmistrv 284 

Phoebe ". : 319 

Pluck and Luck 231 

Put Money in Your Purse 177 

Rhvme 360 

Rosabell 115 

Rosa Lee 198 

Scandal 360 

Shall Lovers Dwell Apart ? 270 

She Has Her Faults Like Other Maids 312 

She Wears a Starry Crown of Deeds 342 

So Deep in Love Am 1 210 

Somewhere 390 

Take Back These Honeyed Songs 250 

Take Down Those Gifts 227 

The Billionaire 251 

The Book of Yosemite 211 

The Column 218 

The Divorcee Dinner 291 

The Hours 278 

The Human Tongue 230 

The Land of Washington 363 

The Loving Couple 332 

The Moral Poet 255 

The Old Folks Are Growing Old, Old 362 

The Other Half 337 

The Pen 295 

The Poet 226 

The Poet is a Deity 264 

The Poets' Queen 392 

The Present 268 

The Prophet 272 

The Rose That Bloomed in Eden 310 

The Song That Lives for Aye 328 

The Spirit of War 207 

The Storm 283 

The Two Voices 222 

The Wheel of Child Labor 235 

There Are More Ways of Pleasing God than One.. 305 

They're Training Boys to Murder 197 



Contents. vii 

PAGE 

Tired 298 

'Tis Better Far 216 

To Trade 309 

Truth 359 

Two Friends 276 

Viola 395 

War 324 

Wiar 375 

What Dreams Unto the Rich Will Come 376 

What Though the Garden of the Muses Yield? 317 

When Beauty Builds Beneath the Stars 354 

When I Consider 324 

Where is My Little Girl To-Night? 389 

Why? 378 

Will He, Nill He 326 

Woman 335 

Your Beauty Left Me Marveling 306 



lONE, AND OTHER POEMS. 



THE POETS' QUEEN. 

She sprung from Beauty's immemorial line, 
And was herself the fairest of her race; 
And ever to her stately dwelling place 

The minstrels came, like palmers to a shrine. 

Where Hesper is the evening star in June, 
Westward she dwelt amid an island estate; 
There Neptune's steed champed at her sea-girt 
gate 

And regal palms shook to the silver moon. 

Beneath her latticed casement, sweet with balm, 
The narcissus and the rose first heaved the sod. 
And Love — the poets sung — awaked a God 

Amid her garden of perpetual palm. 



2 lone, 

Her beauty was of earth as roses are — 

Mortal^ but nothing that might lead astray : 
The glory of her eyes held sovereign sway, 

But blasted none, like some bright, evil star. 

A splendid pride was softened in her mien — 
She bended as the stately lily bends 
When silver dew upon the field descends, 

And bows that flower low, but not to stain. 

Her eyes were bright as stars set for a sign 
In heaven, and in her soft-clustering hair 
The Spirit and the Love that made her fair 

Had left the fragrance of its breath divine. 

Forever open and forever bright. 

Her sculptured gates looked out upon the sea ; 

Fit entrance to her halls where Poetry 
Dwelt like a Presence all compact of light. 

Queen of the Poets and Olympus' Nine, 

Oft would she walk at twilight's pensive close 
Where silver fountains like young palms uprose. 

And hark unto bright ^olus in the pine. 

Or with the morn, soft-op'ning as the rose, 
And with the rose's vermeil flush and light. 
She took her harp and bid adieu to night, 

While chord by chord the stars sunk to repose. 



And Other Poems. 

But, lo! long seasons she has been at rest. 
And no more shall inspire the minstrel brood, 
And given are her isles to solitude 

Like a dead Orion within the west. 



lone, 



lONE. 



PART I. 

Through the red and three- forkt levin 
Flaming o'er the troubled heaven. 
Cold and pallid, like a spirit, 
Looks the moon upon the deep. 
There a merchant bark is riding 
That the hand of Death is guiding, 
And her timbers are colliding 
With the jagged rocks that leap 
Like Destruction from the waters, 
Like a demon sent to reap 
All the vessel hath in keep. 

Harl'f It is the sailors calling, 
Calling down the winds appalling 
Where the lightning points Disaster 
Eiding on the blast o'erhead ! 
HarTc! The sheathed mast is riven. 
Goring at the cruel heaven, 
And the merchant bark is driven 



And Other Poems. 

Where Destruction lifts its head, 
And her splitted timbers tremble 
For that setting deep and dread 
To the stormy ocean's bed ! 

Earl'! The blow hath been delivered. 
And the oaken bark is shivered; 
Every ebb gives up a spirit. 
Every flow a human core ! 
O'er the rocks the lightning burneth, 
(Whence a corpse alone returneth!) 
And each ruffian billow spurneth 
Some dead body to the shore; 
Heaps its dead-along the surf-line 
And retreats amain for more, 
•Lashed into a maddened roar. 

From the rocks a bell is tolling, 
But the hour is past controllings- 
Death has taken up the hour-glass 
And each life he calls his own. 
No, not all ! — one soul is clincrino: 
To that bell the winds are ringing, 
And the distant shore is bringing 
Help to him— and him alone: 
He hath met with Death and wrestled 
And 'tis Death that's overthrown 
On the belFs foundation stone. 



lone, 

He, among an hundred blasted, 
Lives, whose life hath still forecasted 
Sorrow for the gentle lone 
Dreaming by the troubled deep. 
Him the Destinies of sorrow 
Bear from forth the tempest's horror 
That upon the bitter morrow 
He shall make fair lone weep, 
Take the sunlight from her waking, 
Take the love-light from her sleep, 
And make way for Death to reap. 

Him they bear unto the landing: 
Bruised and faint, but still commanding, 
He demands of those around him 
AYhere the lady lone dwells : 
"I have letters I must give her. 
And a message to deliver — 
Be it o'er yon raging river 
Like a gulf between two hells, 
Be it where yon bell is ringing, 
I will hasten where she dwells 
While the love I bear impels." 

"If ye seek the lady lone 
Ye must pass the river Lion, 
Ye must face a death by waters, 
Face the Death within his home. 



And Other Poems. 

By the lightning that is streaming 
Ye can see the castle gleaming 
Where the lady now is dreaming. 
Couched within the marble dome; 
But ye better seek the Lorelei 
With her golden hair and comb 
Than seek lone o'er the foam." 



But the stranger passes the Lion 
For the love of gentle lone. 
For the love he bears the maiden 
As a father bears his child; 
Passes o'er the river Lion 
For the love of gentle lone, 
Though the wave is not yet dry on 
His gray hair and forehead mild: 
Passes to the massive portals 
Where sweet lone is exiled, 
With a dream of hope beguiled. 

"Lo, a face is at the portals — 
Be it ghost's or be it mortal's. 
It shall never have admittance !" 
Cries the Master of the grange. 
"By the lightning that is leaning 
From the skies, we know its meaning, 
And the harvest it is gleaning, 



lone, 

And the love it would exchange ; 
Know a fiend stands at the portals 
And its presence nothing strange 
In this night when Hell hath range. 

"Back, ye foul and evil spirit, 
To the doom that thou inherit; 
Back, ye fiend, unto thy torments 
While the lightning points the way ! 
Back, ye fiend, for here is sleeping 
One whom angels have in keeping. 
And upon whose head are heaping 
Blessings for which angels pray. 
Ye have followed Fear too closely 
And ye cannot now betray 
Though thy head be old and gray." 

"T am human, not a spirit/' 
Thus the Stranger; "if ye fear it. 
Bring the maiden from her chamber 
Whom you love — and I adore: 
She will greet me at the portal 
As a friend and as a mortal, 
'Not her gentle spirit startle 
Though the lightning plays me o'er. 
I adore her as a kinsman. 
Nor her father loves her more; 
Open then thy heart and door. 



And Other Poems. 

"I am human, not a spirit : 

Were I such 1 would inherit 

But the blasts that breathe from Tophet, 

Not the blasts of nature too. 

By 'this coldness that congeals me, 

By this faintness that o'ersteals me, 

By each frailty that reveals me, 

Judge me man and judge me true ; 

One that nature touches wholly 

And hath touched with loss anew 

Of a noble ship and crerw. 

'•Ye can see the lightning flashing. 
Ye can hear the wild waves dashing. 
But ye cannot know the sorrow 
That it brings to other men! 
Ye can hear the rolling thunder. 
And the shock the deep leaps under. 
But the heavens do not plunder 
Thee in darkness stygian. 
For the forked tongues of lightning 
Leap into thy maddened ken 
O'er the grave of ship and men !" 

"Enter in, and speak my pardon; 
I have been too harsh a warden." 
Here the Master, hasting forward, 
Takes the Stranger by the hand. 



lo lone, 

"Enter in, now I recall thee; 
By the hearth I will install thee, 
And no evil shall befall thee 
That my power can withstand. 
Enter in : hast thou a message 
From my Lady's native land, 
From Hispania's far-oif strand ?'' 

« 

"I have letters for the maiden. 
And a message that is laden 
With the sighings of a father 
Dying in a prison hole. 
I, that fain would die to gladden 
This sweet maiden, come to sadden 
Her bright spirit — yea, to madden 
And convulse her gentle soid ! 
I, that hoped to bear Joy's message, 
Come with Horror's fearful scroll, 
Which myself I must unroll!" 

"Christ, have mercy!" cries the Master; 

'^What unmerrciful disaster 

Hangs above this gentle spirit 

Whom the angels all adore? 

Hath all prayer been unavailing?--* 

Is the love of heaven failing, 

That the good are left bewailing 



And Other Poems. il 

For a light that is no more? 
If this be the free-heart's portion. 
What then is the guilty's store ? — 
Ciirist, have mercy, I implore!" 

"Judge not Heavem in the hour 
Of the wrong, but when God's power 
Hath brought light from out of darkness, 
Out of evil hath brought good. 
Judge it not at all were wiser. 
Since we cannot be adviser 
To our Lord and our Chastiser 
Though we have all sin withstood." 
Thus the Stranger softly answers 
With the lips of ripe manhood, 
And his words are understood. 

"Yet inform me," thus the Master, 
"Of this sorrow and disaster — 
What was it befell the father? 
What must now befall his child? 
Christ, her noble father dying 
In the gaol where he is lying ! — 
'Tis a time for work, not sighing, — 
To be cunning and not wild; 
'Tis a time to turn to Heaven, 
That its love be reconciled, 
Not to doubt and be exiled." 



12 lone, 

"In Hispania^ — thus 'tis stated — 
Lived a noble who was hated 
By the father of sweet lone 
For his evil life and heart: 
He was foul past all detraction, 
Cruel as death in his exaction, 
False in faith and false in faction. 
Schooled in evil as an art: 
One who bore a name of honor 
But in honor bore no part — 
Formed without a blush or heart. 

"Long he lived, but one dark morning, 

Seemingly without forewarning. 

He was murdered in a meadow 

Eastward bounded by the sea. 

There was gladness in each village, 

For he nevermore would pillage 

Labor of its honest tillage, 

Of the fruits of husbandry: 

And 'tis said that mom the oxen 

Knelt upon the stormy lea 

Dumbly thankful they were free. 

"On that fearful Sabbath dawning — 
While the tyrant's grave was yawning — 
lone walked across the meadow 
All alone in confidence. 



And Other Poems. 13 

Sudden at her feet upstarted 
Him she loved, and wildly darted 
From her presence with distorted 
Pale and bloody countenance! — 
This she told unto her father 
In a secret conference, 
Sick at heart with love's suspense. 



"Deeply was the father troubled. 
But his fearfulness was doubled 
When 'twas bruited that a murder 
Was enacted with the dawn; 
But his silence was unbroken, 
And he gave his friends no token 
Of the things his child had spoken 
Or the face she looked upon. 
Much he loved the youth suspected — 
Trusted him, — to him was drawn 
As a father to a son. 

"Then the father rose in sorrow 
And upon the bitter morrow 
Gave his child into thy keeping 
Till the ax of Justice fell : 
But the youth was unsuspected. 
And the guilty undetected, 
And the very crime neglected. 



14 lone, 

Till it reached the Cardinal: 
Then the sleeping law awakened — • 
And all Eome stands semtinel 
O'er an innocent man's cell! 

"Lo, behold ! look where 'tis written 
How the hand of Eome hath smitten 
lone's father for the murder 
That sweet lone's lover did! 
Hasten then and waken lone — 
She must pass the river Lion 
Though the tears be yet not dry on 
Her warm cheek and drowsy lid: 
She must hasten to her father 
Witnessing what hath been hid, 
xA.s her father here hath bid. 

^^Better that her lover perish 
Than the father she should cherish; 
Better perish a false lover 
Than an aged, guiltless sire. 
Yet, in spite of lone's admission, 
And the father's deep suspicion, 
x\nd the youth's unkind position. 
Were I Eome I would enquire 
Deeper than these circumstances, 
Though enough they seem and dire 
To commit the vouth to fire. 



And Other Poems. 15 

"For I think the youth is gentle 
And this death was accidental, 
Though no man's above suspicion 
Till the Tempter hath been bound !" 
Now — the Stranger ceasing — slowly 
Kneels the Master meek and lowly — 
Like a pious man and holy 
Kneels upon the flinty ground, 
And to God commends his spirit 
And of heaven's love profound 
Asks that patience may abound. 

Now, uprising, leads the Stranger, 

Who hath faced a sea of danger, 

To a high and spacious chamber 

Ever ready for a guest. 

"Rest ye here until the breaking 

Of the dawn, and loners waking. 

Then, in this deep undertaking. 

We will act as ye think best — 

Though there's one way, one way only, 

Which is God's way manifest, 

And that way ye did suggest.'^ 

Now a sleep falls on the Stranger, 
Sleep too deep for dreams of danger. 
And the Master seeks the chamber 
Where sweet lone lies at rest. 



i6 lone, 

At the threshold dim delays he. 
And no call or speech essays he, 
But in love and silence prays he 
That the heavens guard his guest. 
Guard the pure and gracious lady 
In the name of Christ, the Best, 
And all spirits pure and blest. 

Deep she sleepeth though the lightning 
O'er the moated grange is bright'ning, 
Deep she sleepeth though the thunder 
Eolls above her bosom bare. 
From her dream she doth not borrow 
Sadness for the dawning morrow — 
One she is that hath known sorrow 
But hath never known despair; 
One that hopeth ere the evil, 
Hoperth after it doth snare; 
Born to suffer, schooled to bear. 

In the footsteps of bright Pleasure 
Sorrow follows with full measure — 
Drinking deep the wine of gladness 
We must drink the dregs at last; 
So unto this maiden dreaming, 
With the lightning o'er her gleaming, 
And her virgin fancy teeming 



And Other Poems. ij 

With the memories of the past, 
Sorrow comes like some foul spirit 
Borne before the midnight blast. 
Treading Pleasure's steps full fast. 

Sorrow comes to wake the Sleeper 
And be made her silent keeper, 
Like a guard placed o'er the guilty, 
Like a watch placed o'er the doomed. 
From her prison it shall be given 
Her to still espy in heaven 
Gladness from her presence driven, 
But her spirit shall be entombed, 
And the past can be remembered 
But, ah nevermore resumed ' — 
Like a vestment long consumed. 

One she is that hath known sorrow — 
But from certain griefs we borrow 
Kindly hope that leads and cheers us 
Till our griefs no more annoy: 
So with lone — to her gladness 
She has borrowed hope's sweet madness 
And the present has lost its sadness 
Tn the future's promised joy. 
But, alas ! the hour is coming 
That fore\-er will destroy 
Hope, the dearest of employ. 



1 8 lone, 

Tenderly, with maiden yearning, — 
•Every thought of evil spurning — 
Still she loves the noble Bertrand 
Who, indeed, is innocent; 
And through all her separation 
Still her heart with sweet elation 
Beats her lover's vindication. 
Deep and true and eloquent: 
Still she trusteth in his honor 
With a faith all confident. 
And her faith is not misspent. 

Now she dreams of when they parted. 
She all faith, he broken-hearted ; 
She, the weaker, raised by patience. 
He, the stronger, bowed by woe: 
And her gentle heart is beating 
As it did at that last meeting, 
When her lover brought his greeting 
And she told him she must go — 
Go across the frowning mountains, 
For what cause she must not know 
Since her father willed it so. 

"By that God that bends above thee," 
Low he answered, "I do love thee. 
And my love shall teach me patience. 
And my patience make thee mine. 



And Other Poems. 19 

Since it must be, 1^11 not grieve thee 
With my sorrow, but will leave thee 
Till that day when I receive thee 
From thy father, to inshrine 
Thee within my distant castle, 
Where the climbing ivy vine 
Eoots itself in limpid Ehine/' 



Then he kist her hands and vestment, 
And one moment in caressment 
Touched her hair and added gently, 
"Heart of heart, till then farewell !" 
So these hapless lovers parted, 
Trembling, if not broken hearted. 
All their plans and gladness thwarted 
By that vision that befell 
lone walking through the meadows 
Eapt in love's all-dreamy spell 
That had seen, but seen not well. 

Now she dreams of that sweet meeting 

In the future — and its greeting — 

When her lover^ vindicated. 

Shall again look on her face, 

Kiss her hands and flowing vestment. 

Touch her hair in sweet caressment. 

And one moment in redressment 



20 lone, 

Hold her in his pure emhrace. 
Saying, "Love, the time was dreary. 
Yet Time's footsteps I'd retrace 
To live o'er this moment's grace." 

And — all love and faith — she calleth 
From her sleep — "Whate'er bef alleth, 
I will never leave thee, Bertrand, 
Surely, neTer leave thee more! 
I believed thee, Bertrand, ever; 
I will doubt thy honor never; 
Nor my father now can sever 
Thee from me, though him I adore ! 



I will follow where thou leadest, 
Though the lightning hurtles o'er 
And the deep beneath doth roar !" 



At the threshold kneels the Master, 

Like a form in alabaster. 

Like a cold and marble figure 

In the attitude of prayer; 

But a living heart is beating 

In his bosom, still repeating, 

"Christ have mercy !" and entreating 

Him to hearken and to spare — 

Spare the gentle lady lone. 

In His mercy and His care. 

Of a woe too great to bear. 



And Other Poems. 21 

But the silence being broken 
By these words in deep sleep spoken, 
To liis feet the Master rises, 
Troubled, like a father moved. 
"She is with him in her dreaming. 
With her Love ! her mind is scheming 
Of a better da}^ and teeming 
With his innocence approved ! 
All her being bends toward him, 
All her thoughts are interwove d 
With this Bertrand whom she loved ! 

"This is wormwood to the bitter ! 
Gall to wormwood ! — 'twill unfit her 
For all hope and consolation. 
For all trust in heaven's grace ! 
With his love she is infected 
Deeper than my mind suspected. 
Deeper than her heart reilected. 
Mirrored in her gentle face: — 
He is dearer than her father, 
Dearer than her whole dear race. 
Since she loves him in disgrace! 

"Christ, prepare her for the morning 
By prophetic dreams of warning. 
In a dream prepare her spirit 
For the bitter waking timel'^ — 



22 lone, 

But all night she dreams of gladness, 
Of sweet music charming sadness, 
And of laughter without madness, 
And of wedding bells that chime ; 
And she dreams not she is dreaming. 
As she smells the dewy thyme 
In her own warm native clime. 



Now the Stranger hath uprisen, 
And the castle seems a prison 
To his eager restless spirit. 
Still impatient to be gone. 
"Haste," he whispers to the Master, 
"Break to her this sad disaster. 
Though thy story must o'ercast her 
And make midnight of the dawn : 
We have little time to linger. 
But by noon must be withdrawn. 
Though we've much to think upon." 

"I will join you," thus the other, 
"On this journey, as thy brother 
In the cause of gentle lone. 
As thy friend in every need. 
Have ye patience, for 'tis better 
That I school her ere the letter 
Is surrendered that must fetter 



And Other Poems. 2^ 

Her to sorrow cruel indeed — 
I will school her gentle spirit. 
Calm her heart that fain must bleed. 
Then leave her alone to read. 

*^A11 alone, for it is better 
That alone she read this letter 
Which was written by her father 
In an hour of deep distress: 
And I'll also be attorney 
To prepare her for this journey. 
For this unexpected journey 
To her father, comfortless. 
Stay ye here, and pray the heavens 
Smile upon my cause and bless 
What we ask with all success." 

lone, at her casement standing. 

Hears a footstep on the landing. 

Hears the Master whom she honors 

Hasting to her chamber door. 

At the threshold now she meets him. 

And with subdued welcome greets him — 

Humble welcome — and entreats him 

Enter in — her greeting o'er. 

To her window now she leads him. 

Looking out upon the shore 

She shall look on but twice more. 



24 lone, 

"Look," she saith, "a hope hath perished, 
One, perhaps, that still is cherished." 
Here she points unto a vessel 
"Wrecked upon the stormy reef. 
"Yea, dear lady," thus the Master, 
"Now ye look on stern disaster; 
But unkinder, deeper, vaster. 
Than the sea is human grief ! 
Yet the tempest troubled ocean 
Is but as a whirling leaf 
Unto Him who gives relief! 

"Let it teach thy gentle spirit 
That thyself must pain inherit, 
Since these lives were not exempted 
That the storm hath overthrown: 
And, if thou hast ere known sorrow. 
From this wreck the lesson borrow — 
Schooling thee through pain and horror — 
That thyself art not alone 
In thy grief, but others suffer. 
At their hearts a weight of stone. 
Heavier with every groan." 

"I perceive it," saith the maiden, 
"And my heart is heavy laden; 
Yea, that sorrow is most common, 
This indeed I understood." 



And Other Poems. 25 

"So the heavens have ordained it," 

Thus the Master, "Yet have strained it 

Through God's mercy, and have rained it 

On our spirits for our good, 

For 'tis sorrow more than gladness 

Teaches men a brotherhood 

Closer than the ties of blood." 



Now the Master, turning slowly 

From the casement, utters lowly, 

*'Ione, since thou hast known sorrow. 

Thou may knowest how to bear; — 

To be patient, not contending 

With thy soul, nor apprehending 

That the evil is past mending, 

Or is reason for despair; 

To abide in faith and meekness. 

As becoming in an heir 

To yon Heaven's love and card. 

**Knowing those that lose not Heaven 
Lose but that which hath been given 
For a few brief fleeting seasons. 
And that Death eventually takes." 
Here the Master meekly ceases. 
But no hope his bosom eases, 
And his fearfulness increases, 



26 lone, 

For a pallid dread awakes 
In the face of gentle lone, 
!And her startled bosom quakes 
(As the blood her brow forsakes. 

Pale she looks upon her teacher. 
Whose gray lifted eyes beseech her 
To have patience, hope and courage 
'Gainst the sorrow that has come : 
Pale she looks upon the ocean. 
On the wreck in restless motion. 
And a sad and stern prenotion 
Leaves her fearful spirit dumb: 
Pale as cold forsaken marble 
Has fair lone now become 
'Gainst a time of martyrdom. 

"Courage, lone ; half our sorrow 
Prom our fearful hearts we borrow; 
Courage, lone, for the noble 
Need fear nothing but their fear ! 
'Tis not death that now assails thee 
In this hour when gladness fails thee. 
And a bitter duty hails thee. 
In which thou must persevere; 
But that error is triumphant 
Over him thou dost revere 
With a daughter's heart sincere/' 



And Other Poems. 27 

Now the Master, meek and lowly, 
Tells the Strangers story wholly, 
And to lone, pale and trembling. 
Gives the letter he hath by; 
And from fearful apprehension. 
From a sad and stern presension, 
lone passes — cold with tension — 
To the truth without a cry; 
Learns her father's cruel position. 
Which, to mend, her Love must die. 
And in cold obstruction lie. 

"I am ready ; thus bespeak me 
To this friend that fain would seek me/' 
Answers lone, and the Master 
With these words his leave doth take. 
NoAV pale lone reads the letter. 
Reads the loving, pleading letter 
From her father, which must fetter 
Bands that angels cannot break, — 
Fetter bands about her spirit. 
For her aged father's sake. 
That love's angels cannot break. 

Now upon her knees she bendetK, 
Asking that her breathings endeth, 
Craving that which e\^ery spirit 
Hath once craved of heaven — death ! 



28 lone, 

That one prayer that ceases never, 
But forever and forever, 
Though a thousand creeds dissever, 
Rises upward without death; 
Prayer of all and prayer for all time 
While this mortal frame holds breath, 
The eternal prayer for — death! 

Now she rises from her kneeling, 

Shame's hot blush upon her stealing. 

Saying, "Father, forgive me, 

I must live to rescue thee ! 

Unto me alone is given, 

By that mercy lodged in heaven. 

Power to make these great odds even 

And to work thy liberty ; 

I alone can charm back honor 

On thy gray hairs, and to me 

Hath been given life's one key! 

"But, Bertrand, my lover. 
It is I that must discover 
That wild vision of the meadow- 
Point thee out to death and shame ! 
Thou, that used to love and prize me,- 
And thy love did still suffice me, — 
Now must evermore despise me 



And Other Poems. 29 

And adjudge me not the same; 
Thou must think me false, inconstant. 
When I publicly exclaim 
'Gainst thy ever-gracious name ! 

" 'Twas not thee I saw that morning 

But a vision of forewarning; 

With thine own blood thou wast dabbled. 

Blood that I myself must spill ! 

Xot thee, Bertrand, but a vision, 

And I merit all derision 

That, in trembling indecision, 

And in weakness of the will, 

I made known unto another 

That I saw thee near that hill 

Where assassins had wrought ill ! 

"Yet, Love, in my unfitness, 

I must be my father's witness. 

Swear I saw thee, Love, that morning 

Where the murdered man was found !— 

So it seemed — yet ^twas but seeming, 

But the folly of my dreaming — 

Of a dream past all redeeming, — 

Or a vision to confound ! 

I must swear to an appearance 

And leave Heaven to expound 

That 'twas such to all around ! 



30 lone, 

"Would to God I then bad perished, 
Or thy love I ne'er had cherished ! 
Would thy hand had gathered flowers 
For my grave, not for my breast ! 
Would that lilies sprang above me 
That thou, Bertrand, still would love me. 
With that early love still love me, 
While I lie at perfect rest ! 
0, that I had died in summer 
And thy gentle step had prest 
To my grave among the blest !" 

With these mournful words she ceases. 
But no tear her sorrow eases; 
'Gainst the wall she leans her forhead, 
Silent as a thing that's dead. 
All her life before her rises. 
All its jo}' and sweet surprises. 
All its grief and sacrifices,^ 
All, before her soul is spread: 
All its shadow, all its beauty, 
Pain that lingered, joys that fled. 
Doubts that grieved, hope that misled. 

Meantime hath the Master carried 
To that Stranger who hath tarried 
In his chamber. Tone's message 
And delivered it twice o'er. 



And Other Poems. 

"If ye've gold, prepare to spend it/' 

Thus the Stranger, "or to lend it; 

Or, if ye cannot extend it, 

Friends must stead thee from their store ; 

For the sea hath stoFn my fortune 

On the reef beyond the shore. 

And the sea doth not restore." 

" 'Tis my time for exercising 
Friendship's bounty, and devising 
Means of travel,'' thus the Master, 
"And my fortune is not mean. 
This much will I lend to heaven. 
For to me much hath been given; 
More than I can e'er make even 
Many times I have foreseen. 
Be not fearful for this journey — 
We shall sail 'Hispania's Queen' 
Ere the noonday sun is seen." 

So 'tis wished, so prosecuted. 
So the journey instituted; 
Home sails lone to her father, 
Leaving joy and youth behind ! 
Homeward journeys with the Master 
And the Stranger; fast and faster 
Sailing on toward disaster. 



31 



32 lone, 

In the sails a, mighty wind ! 
Home by Lisbon and Gibraltar, 
lone sails with fearful mind, 
Led by Fortune — false and blind ! 



PAKT II. 

In yon prison cell is lying. 
Of dishonor slowly dying, 
One whose name erewhile was noble 
And thrice honored by the State. 
Stone, bcmeath, above, around him. 
Rears its columns to confound him 
Where an evil time hath bound him. 
Looking on with brow of hate. — 
All his honors have passed from him. 
All his friends have proved ingrate 
Save the few that strive and wait. 

He is stript of Fortune's lending, 
:N"aked with the blast contending ; 
On his white hairs shame hath fallen, 
Shame his neighbors' eyes have seen. 
Age, that should have been a blessing. 
Filled with honor's dear caressing, 
Hath been cursed beyond redressing. 



And Other Poems. 33 

Made ignoble, harsh, and mean: 
And he breathes the air of dungeons 
Who should breathe the pure serene 
Of the meadows lush and green. 

This is lone's father, dying 

In the cell where he is lying, 

Calling on his God to witness 

That his soul is innocent: 

And his mighty heart is broken. 

And his painful words are spoken 

In such whispers as betoken 

That his life is almost spent. — 

Him the law is sacrificing 

As a guilty instrument 

In what seemed a foul event. 

Veiled corruption hath pursued him 

For a season and subdued him 

To the law^s blind inquisition. 

To dishonor, grief, and shame. 

By a friend he still mistrusted — 

One that for his life hath lusted! — 

Charge of murder hath been thrusted 

Secretly upon his name. 

And the law hath sate in judgment 

And on him affixed the blame 

Who is guiltless of the same. 



^ lono, 

Yet one hope there is remaining. 
One dear hope his life sustaining, 
And that hope is that his daughter 
Will renew his liberty. 
She was witness to a vision. 
To a true, if damned vision. 
Which must change the law's decision, 
Change the law^s corrupt decree : — 
She will publish that young Bertrand 
Slew the Noble by the sea, 
And her father shall go free. 

Now the old man falters lowly 
To the stones, "The Lord is holy ; 
He will set me free in two worlds — 
In this one and in His own: 
He will send my daughter to me 
That those foemen who pursue me 
And seek falsely to undo me 
Shall be wholly overthrown: 
In her hands He will lodge comfort 
That shall presently atone 
For this prison house of stone. 

"Is there storm upon the watCT 
That ye hear not of my daughter ?" 
Now he whispers to his gaoler 
Who hath brought him bitter food. 



And Other Poems. 35 

"Thou hast more need of devotion 
Than of question, for the ocean 
From its center is in motion !" 
Thus the gaoler in wild mood : — 
"Trouble heaven with thy questions 
And not feeling flesh and blood: 
Die, and ask it of hell's brood V 

"0, my God/' the old man falters, 
"Prison walls all nature alters, 
Till the stones rise up against me 
That are laden with my tears ! 
And my daughter will forsake me — 
Hasten but to overtake me 
Ere I pass away and make me 
Cause for mockery and jeers ! 
All hath altered; e'en the heavens 
Send a priest that doubts and sneers 
And heaps curses on my ears!" 

"Hush, ye fool !" the gaoler mutters, 
"'Tis thy madness now that utters 
'Gainst the holy church such treason 
As may some time cost thee dear. 
See ! the holy father's hasting 
Unto thee the Lord is chast'ing. 
And in treason thou art wasting 



36 lone, 

Breath thou needst to set thee clear. 
Fear the Lord and shut thy mouth then ! — - 
Would that mouth were a third ear 
That it could not speak, but hear !" 

Now a cowled form enters slowly 

Like a pious priest and holy, 

But 'fore such a damned spirit 

Cain had blushed and cried out "shame !" 

'Tis no priest, but the betrayer 

Of the pris'ner, and inveigher 

'Gainst his honor ; 'tis the slayer 

Of the Noble: and his aim 

Is to feed an ancient hatred 

'Gainst the prisoner's fair name 

Overtopping his in fame. 

Once he sought a high position 

Which might tempt a duke's ambition. 

But the prisoner outplanned him 

By his native strength of mind : 

Crost in hope he sought to smother 

All his hatred for the other. 

Who had loved him as a brother,— 

Sought to make the victor blind 

Till he found him in his power. 

Then he purposed to be kind, 

Kind as racks that rend and bind! 



And Other Poems. 37 

As he enters like a presence 
Of some higher, purer essence, 
From the dungeon hastes the gaoler 
And his footsteps die away. 
"Prisoner/' he saith slowly, 
"Thou art stained, the Church is holy, 
She is proud and thou art lowly, — 
Wilt thou longer then delay? 
Wilt thou keep confession waiting 
Till the Church shall cease to pray 
For thy soul in its dismay? 

"Rome awaits but thy repentance 
And confession, then her sentence 
Shall be lifted from thy spirit 
And thy soul need fear no ills. 
But, fool ! beware Eome's turning, 
Fear the hour of her spurning, — 
She is patient with all yearning. 
Patient as her seven hills, 
But her patience hath an ending 
As the patience of the hills. 
And this ending is what kills. 

"Kills the soul that would find heaven, 
As the crooked bolts of levin 
Kill the body and consume it : — 
Such hath Rome the power to do ! 



38 lone, 

Better thou wert not created 
Than thy soul for aye be hated, 
Cursed and excommunicated 
By the mother Church and true ! 
Rome stands waiting; in her bosom 
There is lightning and is dew! — 
Which, prisoner, choose you?" 

"Cease thy counsel and chastising," 

Thus the prisoner, uprising ; — 

"I am greater than thy orders, 

A free soul is more than Rome! 

By that God that watches o'er me 

1 am guiltless ! then restore me 

To that peace from whence they tore me, 

To the quietness of my home: 

Every stone knows I am guiltless 

That upholds this prison dome! — 

Then restore me to my home. 

"Yet, holy father, listen— 
And that Rome herself did christen 
Me in youth is not more certain 
Than these things whereof I'll speak: 
Certain as my own baptism. 
Certain as thy Catholicism, 
Certain as the holy chrism. 



I 



And Other Poems. 39 

Are these things whereof I'll speak. 
But draw nearer, holy father, 
For my voice is strangely weak; 
Draw ye nearer, cheek to cheek.'' 

Nearer draws the false Corambis, 
Nearer draws the cowled Corambis, 
To the other saying sternly, 
"Truth is coming ; let it come ! 
Blessed, if, ere my departure, 
I can free thee from this torture. 
From this almost hopeless torture 
Which has made thy spirit dumb; 
Blessed, if my lips can ease thee 
Ere thy body shall succumb 
To its fearful martyrdom." 

"There is storm upon the water 
And ye may not see my daughter,'' 
Thus the prisoner, "for lone 
May be lost upon the sea: 
Should this be, then I must borrow 
From her death eternal sorrow, 
For I fear upon the morrow 
That my life shall cease to be, 
And should lone die before me 
Who will speak a word for me? 
Who will set my good name free? 



40 lone, 

"Who? — unless before I perish 
I should publish what I cherish 
As a secret of my daughters, 
Which her love forbid me tell. 
Who? — unless thyself will hear me, 
And, in living afier, clear me 
That the world shall still revere me 
And not deem my soul in hell; 
That my good name shall live after 
And my spirit's passing bell 
Be not honor's fearful knell.'' 

"Speak," Corambis answers lowly, 
"I will serve thee, serve thee wholly; 
Pour into my ear thy secret. 
From my lips shall comfort fall. 
What is this thou hast kept hidden, 
And thy daughter hath forbidden — 
By her voiceless love forbidden — 
Ye to tell in part or all ? 
Dost thou know w^ho slew the Noble 
By that meadow's flinty wall, 
While the devil stood in call?" 

'^ea ! and I have kept it hidden 
As my daughtei''s love hath bidden. 
Thinking that the law would free me 
And the guilty not be found; 



And Other Poems. 41 

But the hope hath passed probation 
And hath failed: so Rome's legation 
Shall undo my condemnation 
And the guilty shall be bound. 
I will suffer shame no longer, 
Nor through idle hope compound 
With an evil most profound. 

"Draw ye nearer: 111 discover 
In what manner lone's lover 
On the morning of the murder 
By my child herself was seen.'^ 
This he does^ moreover saying, 
^'Bertrand's guilty of the slaying. 
Guilty of that Lord's betraying. 
And, priest, my hands are clean; 
He is guilty; let him answer; 
I no longer choose to screen 
Him from law, or come between." 

"Ha !'' Corambis cries, uprising, 
"Thou deservest canonizing 
For thy friendship and thy patience. 
And I love thee for the same. 
Come, rejoice! for if thou perish 
Both thy name and bones I'll cherish. 
So thou ncedst not leave this garish 



42 lone, 

Day of life with fear of shame; 
Thou shalt leave a voice behind thee 
To cry honor on thy name 
And give thee enduring fame." 

But behind his cowl he mutters, 
"This is truth the old man utters, 
And 1^11 publish it for profit 
Should he die with it unsaid. 
For, by heaven ! but this morning 
I received a hint of warning 
From Montero — curse his scorning! — 
Laying this murder on my head. 
And, unless his eyes be hoodwinked 
And his cunning thoughts misled, 
I'll be numbered with the dead." 

Now he adds, aloud and cheerful, 
"Prisoner, be thou not fearful, 
I release thee and absolve thee 
From all past and future crime ; 
And I'll do as ye have bidden — 
Publish what thou still hast hidden, — 
Which concealment should be chidden,- 
Give thee whole unto the time: 
I will live to shield thy honor. 
Lift thy name from scandal's slime, 
And make it again sublime.'^ 



And Other Poems. 43 

With these mocking words he hurries 
From the cell. The prisoner buries 
His white hairs within his mantle 
Moaning that his days are o'er; 
And, upon the stones, reclining, 
Sees in thought the bright sun shining 
On his home, and sweet buds twining 
'Eound the lattice by the door; 
Stands again upon the threshold. 
In his ears the distant roar 
Of the surf upon the shore. 

Up the sunny path advances 
lone with her tender glances, 
Singing of the vales of Flora 
Sweet in old Provencal lay : 
After her, from field and bower 
Washed at morn in golden shower, 
Every April wakened flower 
Bends the beauty of its spra}^, 
And its fragrance wafts toward her 
As if she were gentle May 
Moving on her gracious way. 

From this reverie awaking. 
All his heart with sorrow aching, 
Now the father in the darkness 
Stretches out his yearning arms : 



44 lone, 

"0, my God, thou'll not bereave me 
Of my child, nor she deceive me 
And in this cold dungeon leave me 
Where no sunlight shines or warms! 
She was ever true and tender 
And once more within these arms 
I shall fold her, safe from storms! 



"No, ah no ; she's gone forever, 
Gone forever and forever, 
Ijost upon the troubled waters 
As these long delays attest! 
And my arms shall ne'er enfold her. 
Never, nevermore enfold her, 
Nor my eyes again behold her; 
She is gone where none molest! — 
I have outlived truth and honor, 
And my child I loved the best 
Is before me gone to rest!" 

'^No, my father, thou'rt mistaken — 
I'm not dead nor then forsaken ; 
I am living, I, thy daughter. 
Living, and have brought thee peace! 
So, dear father, be not daunted. 
By no spirit art thou haunted. 
Nor this dungeon is enchanted. 



And Other Poems. 45 

» 

I am real and bring release: 
Lo, I touch thy hand, my father! — 
Let thy doubts and tremblings cease, 
I, thy daughter, come with peace." 

As the silence now is broken 

By these tender words outspoken^ 

To his feet the father rises 

With a startled, broken cry. 

In his arms he clasps bis daughter. 

Clasps his faithful, gentle daughter. 

Dearer than he ever thought her. 

Bright as love may glorify; 

Clasps her to his straining bosom, 

Saying, "Lord, now let me die 

While my daughter is still by !" 

"Dear, my father, on the morrow 

Thou shalt bid farewell to sorrow, 

Yet not bid farewell, father, 

Or to life or liberty. 

Thou art talked of now in heaven 

By good angels that are given 

Power such as oft hath riven 

Gates of brass and set men free: 

Seraphs are this night impatient 

For the gracious morn to be 

When from hence they shall lead tliee," 



46 lone, 

"0, my child, thou little knowest 
How I'm numbered with the lowest. 
How my works are all forgotten, 
And my patience made my shame: 
Little knowest how detraction 
Hath set in with harsh exaction, 
How the forked tongue of faction 
Hath envenomed my good name ; 
Little knowest how I'm fallen, 
Fallen without guilt or blame. 
Fallen — and who shall reclaim!" 

"Yet, my father, I can reason 
Of the cure, if not the treason — 
Of the remedy I've knowledge 
Though not knowledge of the wrong. 
Yet I partly am acquainted 
With thy fall : my heart hath fainted 
Many times since it hath painted 
Thee so deeply grieved and long. 
0, belie\^e me^ I have sounded 
x\ll the fearful depth of wrong 
Since I came these stones among." 

'^0, sweet lone, kneel ye by me 
And with comfort fortify me: 
1 will thank the stones beneath me 
Whilst thou talk of being free. 



And Other Poems, 47 

Shall I see the sun in heaven 

Once again ere I am given 

Unto death? Shall shame be drfvon 

From my sight, rebuked by thee ? 

Shall they clothe me with that honor. 

With that former dignity 

Which fell off with liberty?" 

"Dear, my father, do not tremble— 
Thinkest thou I would dissemble? 
Thou shalt see and seeing answer 
'It is good — good as can be '* 
I have come upon this journey 
As thy witness and attorney, 
(Heaven be my own attorney!) 
And I bring thee liberty: — 
Surely, father, they'll believe me, 
Though, indeed, I'm kin to thee. 
And, believing, set thee free." 

Thus they whisper, one the other, 
Never dreaming that another, 
That Corambis at the threshold 
Listens to their every word; 
Never dreaming that their meeting, 
That their happy, sacred greeting, 
That their very pulses' beating. 



48 lone, 

By a foe is overheard: 
Thinking that the heavens only 
Know how deeply they are stirred, 
Not a foe by hatred spurred. 

Now, beside the pallet kneeling, 
lone, wdth her soft hand stealing 
Through her father's, whispers lowly 
Words of love and comfort sweet. 
Of her journey o'er the ocean. 
Of her spirit's deep emotion, 
Of her hopes and her devotion. 
Whispers lowly at his feet; 
But, as yet, speaks not of Bertrand, 
In whose cause she shall entreat 
With a woman's fervid heat. 

To her words her father listefns, 

And each sunken eye now glistens 

With the kindling light of gladness, 

Hope, and waking ecstasy. 

O'er her face he still is bending. 

His cold breath and her warm blending, 

Trusting still, still apprehending. 

That her love shall set him free; 

Hanging on her words intently 

As if they were that decree 

Giving him his liberty. 



I 



And Other Poems. 49 

Thus conversing, lone slowly 

Leads to that which claims her wholly 

To the vision of the meadow 
And her lover's part therein : 
Saying, "Father, for that vision 
Which mnst change the law's decision, 
Why, indeed, 'twas but a vision. 
To remembered dreams akin; 
But a dream except in outcome, 
Such as idle fancies spin 
Or in fear have origin. 

"Once before at early morning, 

Suddenly, and without warning, 

I perceived the noble Bertrand 

Struggling in the very ground ; 

But when I had wildly hurried 

To the spot where he seemed buried. 

Upward to his shoulders buried, 

'Twas an idle dream I found. 

For it faded as a vision. 

And I fell into a swound 

With accustomed sights around.'^ 

To his feet her father staggers 
As if she had spoken daggers; 
To his feet he feebly rises 
From his face a brightness fled. 



50 lone, 

Like when some rude spirit dashes 
Waters on bright fire that Hashes 
And one moment all is ashes, 
Cold and still and dull and dead. 
For a while he feebly swayeth. 
Then, with one hand to his head. 
Sinks upon his narrow bed. 

lone, to her feet uprising, 
Marks this change past all disguising, 
Comprehends the fearful reason 
And continues, wrung with pain: 
"Father, dost thou fear this vision 
Will make light the other vision. 
That the law in its decision 
Will receive me with disdain — 
Will adjudge that I am troubled 
By some sickness of the brain 
And my testimony vain?" 

"Thou hast said : I'm ruined forever," 

Thus the prisoner, "and never 

Shall I look upon the morrow 

Or go forth to liberty ! 

There is naught but death remaining 

Since my good name's past regaining, 

And my freedom past attaining; 



And Other Poems. 51 

Naught but death as ye may see ! 
Thou'll be judged an idle dreamer 
In the currents of decree, 
And thou canst not set me free !" 

"Yea, my father; and I tremble, 
For my soul dare not dissemble — 
Hiding from the law this vision 
That the other be not vain. 
It were murder to conceal it, 
For — thou knowest — not to reveal it. 
But within my heart to seal it. 
Would give credit to my brain. 
And that vision of the meadow 
Then would seem a flawless chain, 
Not an idle dream profane.^^ 

Now the father knows temptation: 
(Let his wrong be palliation!) 
lone must conceal that vision 
Of her lover in the ground. 
"I have suffered for this other," — 
Thinks the prisoner; — "a brother 
Not more freely — nay, a mother 
Not more freely had been bound: 
Let him, then, in like repay me, 
In like suffering compound 
Tor this deep and grievous wound. 



52 lone, 

"lone/' thus begins the father, 

"There's a third way — " "Yea, I rather 

Choose the third way," answers lone, 

"And perchance 'twill set thee free. 

There's a third way and a better. 

Not set down within thy letter, 

And, for which, I am the debtor 

To mine own anxiety; 

And that third way is, my father, 

That I take the guilt on me 

Of that murder by the sea. 

"Swear that I myself committed 
This strange murder and outwitted 
One that sought to wrong my honor 
x\s I crost that meadow wide: 
Swear that on that fatal morning. 
Dastardly, and without warning, 
This dead Lord — all honor scorning — 
Sought to shame me and my pride. 
And I plucked his weapon from him 
Thrusting it into his side — 
So he sinned and so he died!" 

At this plan so unexpected, 
Deeply is the heart affected 
Of that father whose intention 
Was to wrong a guiltless man. 



And Other Poems. 53 

Shame comes o'er him and amazement, 
Shame at his own heart's debasement, 
And amazement, deep amazement, 
At his daughter's daring plan. 
With dim eyes he looks toward her, 
But he scarcely now can scan 
Her fair features, cold and wan. 



"Yea," continues lone lowly, 
"This is best and almost holy. 
For that Lord has left no kindred 
And we cannot harm his name. 
Herein thou wilt be acquitted, 
Nor shall Bert rand be committed, 
While, for me, — I but outwitted 
One that sought to work my shame. 
And what law will hold me guilty. 
Or what tribunal will blame 
That I struck what would defame?" 

Down upon his pallet sinking. 

Now the father takes to thinking, 

With a mind subdued by sickness, 

Of his daughter's daring plan. 

It were possible in reason. 

And, though false, it were not treason; 

It might free him for a season, 



54 lone, 

To his life might add a span; 
And the heavens would overlook it 
Since Hwould lift a thrice-false ban 
And set free a guiltless man. 

Meanwhile lingers that foul traitor 

Named Corambis: violater 

Of a privacy that's sacred 

And betrayer of his friends ! 

In the darkness he is slinking 

And his evil mind is thinking 

Of that daughter's plan, and linking 

Thought to thought as serves his ends; 

And he swears that lone's purpose 

Shall be crost, for it offends 

And endangers his own ends. 

"Who," he schemes, "will think this maiden 
Slew that mighty Lord of Vedin? 
I, with all my strength and cunning. 
Barely 'scaped Death's fellowship. 
Should she then this plan discover 
And be doubted, all is over. 
For that vision of her lover 
Will lose credit with one slip; 
And, naught being sure, Montero 
May in time my secret strip 
Naked as confession's lip." 



And Other Poems. 55 

"Nay^ my child, we must not borrow 
Earthly joy to Heaven's sorrow; 
Speak the truth as thou hast found it. 
Leave the shaping to the Lord: — 
For although a plan bring gladness 
It may yet be near to madness, 
For hath God not willed that sadness 
Shall be ours, though 'tis hard? 
And in serving joy — though pleasant — 
We may therein cross the Lord, 
Should we aught of truth discard." 

"0, my father, thou art nearer 

Than the heavens, and art dearer, 

And I know of heaven, nothing. 

But much of this love within! 

Do not fail me through thy reasons — 

Truth hath manifold, love, all seasons; 

And a gentle spirit's treasons 

Oft are higher laws 'gainst sin : 

By this heart that feels there's heaven, 

I do feel this deed's akin 

To that heaven, and not sin!" 

Thus these two resume communion. 
But their minds are at disunion : — 
lone pleads the cause of feeling 
And her father that of truth. 



56 lone, 

For a while they are divided, 
And the question undecided 
Which shall be the one that's guided 
By the other — age or youth; 
Yet not long, for gentle lone 
Wins her father o'er to ruth, 
O'er to mercy if not truth. 

Wins him o'er and wins his blessing 
By her mild words and caressing. 
Wins him to support her purpose 
Half in reason, half without. 
Smooths his forehead now and leaves him 
As a dreamless sleep receives him, 
Sleep wherein no sorrow grieves him, 
Free as infancy from doubt: 
Leaves him and retires slowly 
Shadowed by a form devout 
That doth darkly leer and flout! 



PAET III. 

By yon sea a youth is riding 
And, with rein and knee, is guiding 
^Gainst the tide his mettled stallion, 
Fearful of the spumous wave. 



And Other Poems. 57 

In the rider's face is seated 
Strength and courage undefeated 
And a heart that ne'er retreated 
From his eyes, warm, deep, and grave: 
Gold-brown hair around his temple 
Frames a forehead pure and brave, 
Such as is not passion's slave. 

This is Bertrand, lone's lover, 
O'er whom evil fate shall hover, 
Though the airs be tempered for him 
By the purple fires of love. 
Of his lady love's returning 
He hath heard, and now is yearning — 
All his heart within him burning — 
But to touch that lady's glove ; 
But to touch the flowing vestment 
Of fair lone, far above 
Every painting of a love. 

But his lady love is hidden 

From his sight, though he hath ridden 

To her garden gate and lingered 

Full an hour by his heart. 

She is nowhere to be greeted. 

And he feels that he is cheated. 

Feels his love has been mistreated 



58 lone, 

By her keeping thus apart: 
Yet he thinks upon her sorrows, 
And her sorrows now exhort 
Him to patience 'spite his smart. 

Now a while he idly listens 
To the surf that falls and glistens. 
Lapping at his stallion's forefeet 
Firmly planted in the sand: 
Now he turns about and passes 
From the sea the sunlight glasses 
To the banks of waving grasses. 
Thence to firm, dry, level land. 
He will post unto his lady 
And beside her wicket stand 
With young flowers in his hand. 

But, behold ! a hedge is parted 
To his right, and tender hearted, 
Trembling lone stands before him, 
Seen too plainly to retire. 
Instantly the hot blood rushes 
Through the rider's heart and flushes 
To bis brow ; his right hand crushes 
In its grasp the whip of briar. 
Swift he wheels his mettled stallion 
And with heart and brain on fire 
Comes to her in sweet attire. 



And Other Poems. 59 

For a moment lone glances, 
Trembling, backwards; then advances, 
Giving one white hand to Bertrand, 
Saying lowly, "Is it thou?'' 
To his lips the lover presses 
That white hand he now possesses, 
And with welcome words addresses 
lone 'neath a branching bongh; 
And he marks that she who left him 
But a maiden with sweet brow 
Is a ripened woman now. 

"Dearest lady, let my gladness, 

Let my deep and new-found gladness 

Be thy welcome — not my speeches, 

But the formal part of me. 

Losing thee, I lost that even 

One as dear as life and heaven. 

Yet to me that hour was given 

Thy most gracious memory: 

This I've cherished next thy presence 

As the dearest thing to me — 

But how very far from thee !" 

"N"ext to my dear father's greeting 
Thine is dearest, and this meeting 
I shall cherish," answers lone; 
"Unexpected, yet most dear. 



6o lone, 

But, Bertrand, I am grieving 
For my father, — deeply grieving! — 
For, although not past reprieving, 
He's past much I greatly fear; 
Past all joy though not past honor, 
Past the old accustomed cheer. 
Past all faith in friends sincere! 



"True, he hath in thee and others 
Friendship closer than a brother's, 
But the faith is dark within him 
That did once so brightly bum! 
i\nd I'm told he speaks unkindly 
Of his dearest friends, and blindly 
Judges all ; but ah not blindly 
Should they judge him in return: 
He hath suffered through misjudgment. 
Suffered more than we can learn. 
And his suffering makes him stern." 

"0, dear lady, though unkindly 

He hath judged his friends and blindly ,- 

I amongst them, — yet our pardon 

Like a suitor seeks him out. 

Thou hast said: He is mistaken 

In our love and not forsaken, 

Nor are the roots of friendship shaken, 



And Other Poems. 6i 

And 'tis suffering makes him doubt; 
But his suffering and his sorrow, 
Not our action from without, 
Nor his own heart, true, devout. 

"Yet ye spoke of his reprieving 
As a thing not past achieving — 
Has the guilty been discovered? 
Have they found some certain clue? 
Tell me, can ye loose this fetter 
That hath made the law his debtor ? 
0, so be it ; this were better 
Than a blessed dream come true. 
'Twere another bond 'twixt gladness 
And my heart, if it be true, — 
And such bonds are very few!" 

"It is true that I can free him," 

Answers lone : "Thou shalt see him 

In his garden ere the Sabbath, 

For I surely do not err. 

On this very day I'm bidden 

To make known what I've kept hidden — 

Let my silence be not chidden — 

And set free the prisoner. 

What I'll publish shall find credence 

And to me the law'll defer, 

Which should greatly please thee, sir." 



62 lone, 

"Had I but one prayer with Heaven 
I would pray that this be given, 
Granted for thy sake, dear lady. 
Since 'tis very dear to thee. 
May I greet thee in that garden. 
When thy father hath his pardon. 
Or acquittal, and his warden 
Shall his own kind daughter be; 
May I greet thee there, sweet lone. 
In that hour thy father's free 
There to tell my love to thee?" 

On the ground her sweet eyes bending, 
Her full heart with love contending, 
lone one fair hand surrenders 
And surrenders it entire; 
For a moment gives it wholly 
Into Bertrand's hand, then slowly 
Turns away, and sweet and lowly 
Passes through the hedge of brier; 
Sweet and pallid passes homeward, 
While with heart and brain on fire 
Bertrand watches her retire. 

Ardently the youth regards her. 
With the eyes of love regards her 
Till she's lost beyond the meadow, 
Then he dreams of her fair form. 



And Other Poems. 63 

But, alas ! the air is broken 
By such sounds as now betoken 
Some near horseman, and a spoken 
Harsh command breaks up the charm: 
'Tis Corambis, who, dismounting 
From his steed that took alarm, 
Grasps the lover by the arm. 



"Ha, good Bertrand, thou'rt a lover 
And a dreamer, I discover, 
For thy horse stands idly pawing 
Whilst thou gaze on empty air. 
Thou'rt a lover by thine action. 
By this look of deep abstraction. 
And the thin air hath attraction 
But to those in Beauty's snare. 
Come, attend me; I have matter. 
Matter worthy deepest care 
As ye'll presently declare!" 

"True, Corambis, I'm a lover," 
Answers Bertrand, "yet discover 
What deep matter brings thee hither 
Surely at thy leisure's cost. 
Yet thou canst not bring me sadness, 
For IVe ventured faith and gladness, 
Hope and peace, love deep as madness. 



64 lone, 

On one heart, and that's not lost; 
And though earths four corners crumble 
Nothing, I may say, is lost 
Till this heart I love is lost I" 

"Hast thou ventured on a maiden 
All thy wealth ? As well have laden 
Jewels on the backs of dolphins 
Swimming in the open sea ! 
Yea, good Bertrand, thou'rt mistaken 
In these hopes as yet unshaken, 
And thou shalt full soon awaken 
To learn how it is with thee; 
Learn thy judgment has been sleeping, 
Not that sharp-toothed enemy — 
Woman's foul inconstancy ! 

"Yet to each man under heaven 
Comes that hour when 'tis given 
Either to forget some woman 
Or to throw away his soul !" 
Thus Corambis to the lover 
Speaks as one who can discover 
Treason black as clouds that hover 
O'er the pit of sin and dole; 
But the other is not fearful, 
Standing near Love's perfect goal 
With a faith divine and whole. 



And Other Poems. 65 

"No, Coranildb, thou'rt mistaken 

x\nd my love is still unshaken," 

Answers Bertrand ; "yet thou errest 

Through thy brain, not through thy heart. 

Wish me well, yet by some action 

Other than to voice detraction 

'Gainst this lady, whose infraction 

Is a dream upon thy part. 

As thou lovest me, speak no further, 

For ye speak in such a sort 

As will draw on rude retort!" 

"I;et it come," replies the other; 
"Though I love thee as a brother 
Better that I lose thy friendship 
Than that thou become a fool ! 
For to lose thee through just reason 
Is to lose thee but a season. 
Since I'll win thee back when treason 
Proves my words were Just and cool ; 
But thou'rt lost to me forever 
When thou'rt made this woman's tool 
For I cannot love a fool ! 

"Ijend thine ear and I will shake thee 
To the center, and awake thee 
From this sleep wherein fair lone 
Would betray thee with a kiss. 



66 lone, 

Mark nie, and, when I've concluded, 
Judge not me that have intruded 
Here upon thy dreams secluded 
But my message — judge ye this; 
Which, if doubted, go disprove me. 
And not linger here to hiss 
One who showed thee an abyss." 

"Speak right on," replies the lover, 

"And I'll mark all ye discover, 

For, in friendship, I do lend thee 

Both mine ears — yet not my heart. 

I reserve all but my hearing 

In this cause, and — nothing fearing, — 

In my faith still persevering, — 

I shall doubt all ye impart. 

Speak right on, — to ease thy conscience 

Freely mayest thou exhort. 

But thou canst not make me start." 

"Where wast thou that fatal morning 
When some foe — all honor scorning — 
Slew the noble Lord of Vedin? 
Tell me this, my steadfast friend." 
Thus Corambis, drawing nearer. 
Questions Bertrand, and austerer 
Grow his features and severer 



And Other Poems. 67 

Flows his question to its end. 
"Wast thou passing through that meadow 
Where Lord Vedin did contend 
With that foe we'd apprehend?" 

"No, Corambis, I was riding 
Southward where the sea is chiding, 
Half a league beyond that meadow 
Which Lord Vedin crost to die.'' 
"Canst thou prove it to Rome's legation 
To thine honor's vindication?" 
Thus with seeming agitation 
Asks Corambis in reply: — 
"Canst thou prove it by some witness 
Meet within a judge's eye 
Both to swear and testify?" 

"No, Corambis, I've no witness; 
But why question my unfitness 
To make good mine own assertions 
As if honor hung thcTcon ? 
If in secret thou dost reason 
That I did this deed of treason, 
Know thy words are out of season 
And thy doubts are folly's spawn : 
And thou must— for why, Corambis, 
Dost thou look so strangely on 
As if faith in me were gone?" 



68 lone, 

^'No, by heaven, let me perish ! 
When thy truth I cease to cherish V 
Cries Corambis: "Thou dost wrong me 
With these very doubts of thine. 
Judge me not so rude — beseech thee — 
As to think I would impeach thee; 
I am here, good friend, to teach thee 
Of another's charge — not mine, 
Of that charge that tcTider lone — 
With some damnable design — 
Brings against thee : this, in fine ! 

"Learn, good Bertrand, that fair lone, 
Ere thy kisses shall be dry on 
Her white hand, will rise in judgment 
And impeach thee with this deed. 
Swear that — as she walked in study 
On that mom — with face all bloody 
And apparel cut and muddy. 
Thou wast fleeing o'er that mead: 
Swear enough to draw damnation 
Down upon thee — who must bleed 
That her father may be freed !" 

At these words the lover blanches, 
Grasping hard the hanging branches 
In whose shade fair lone granted 
Sweet assurance of her truth. 



And Other Poems. 69 

But his heart is soon collected 
Which so deeply was affected. 
And each rising doubt rejected 
As unworthy love and youth: 
From his heart, with faith all glowing, 
Now he plucks the serpent's tooth; 
Yet ere long 'twill work him ruth ! 

"Take this dream back to thy chalice/' 

Thus he speaks, "and, without malice. 

Drown it in some cooler claret 

Than begot it in thy brain. 

Yet I thank thee for thy trouble; 

And, since vain, my thanks are double; 

Vain — I say — vain as a bubble 

In that wine cup thou didst drain! 

For this lady would not wrong me 

Nor a moment cause me pain 

Though it prove her father's gain." 

"Go thy way, then," thus the other, 
" ^From the smoke into the smother,' 
I have warned thee, but my warning 
Is to thee a drunken dream. 
Let the quicksands close above thee 
Where this maiden's hand will shove thee, 
While thy friend who'd save and love thee 



7o lone, 

Turns awaj^ in sad extreme: 
Shut thine eyes and call it honor, 
Stop thine ears and call't esteem — 
Woman never yet did scheme \" 

Deeply Bertrand is astonished 

That his doubts are thus admonished. 

That his friend remains so steadfast 

Where all seems of folly born. 

Can it be that lone imposes 

Such a price for love's sweet roses? 

Doth she hope that for love's roses 

He will wear this crown of thorn? 

Must he suffer and be silent 

Or expect his lady's scorn 

Ere the breaking of the morn? 

"Had her own sweet lips but tasked me 
I had borne what she had asked me," 
Thus he thinks in pain and silence; 
Then aloud unto his friend : 
"How came ye to know what's hidden 
That thou hast so harshly chidden? 
Say, Corambis, wast thou bidden 
Thus to speak, yet not offend? 
Did my lady send thee hither 
With this message ye extend, 
Or is't thine unto the end ?" 



And Other Poems. 

"Wilt thou hear Death's raven croaking/' 
Thus Corambis, "and, fast cloaking 
Up thy head, swear 'tis the turtle 
Bringing thee the olive bloom? 
'Tis my message and each letter 
Makes thee my eternal debtor, 
And than scorn it thou hadst better 
Go alive into thy tomb ! 
Hadst thou eyes not shut and blinded 
Thou wouldst hide thee with the gloom. 
And not wait the whirlwind's doom ! 

"More than this I'll not reveal thee. 



Yet I promise to conceal thee 

There where thou may'st hear this maiden 

Charging thee with that foul deed. 

Then, indeed, thou shalt awaken 

Knowing that thou art forsaken, 

Yet, ere thou art overtaken, 

May fly hence with instant speed; — 

I've a vessel in the harbor 

Which I'll lend thee in thy need 

If thou'U only turn and heed. 

"0 that I could but persuade him 
To fly hence ere they degrade him," 
Now in silence thinks Corambis, 
"Then his guilt would seem confest. 



72 lone, 

Should he flee it would awaken 
Suspicions not to be shaken, 
And as soon as overtaken 
He would suffer death at best: 
So should I be safe in future, 
For this crime, ''tis manifest. 
Still upon his head would rest." 

"Thanks, Corambis, for thy kindness 
Shown me in my seeming blindness," 
Thus young Bertrand calmly answers, 
"But thou canst not serve me, sir. 
True it is thou'd not deceive me. 
True this lady would not grieve me, 
But not true, good friend, believe me, 
That mistakes do not occur ! 
Therefore I'll continue steadfast 
And believe — though ye demur — 
That thou art mistaken, sir." 



With these words this best of lovers 
His accustomed calm recovers. 
And, into his saddle springing. 
Questions, "Whither goest to-day?*' 
But Corambis, deeply sighing. 
Looks aside without replying. 
So the lover, gratifying 



And Other Poems. 73 

His own fancy, turns awa}^ — 
Horse and rider soon are hidden 
^Mong the trees that yet display 
No green shoots or bloomy spray. 

Meanwhile lone, w^ith the Master 
And that Captain w^hom disaster 
Touched so deeply, stood conversing 
Close beneath a sandy mound, 
lone hath made known that vision 
Which might mar the law's decision, 
To these friends made known that vision 
Of her lover in the ground; 
But hath told her plan of action 
Which will free her father bound 
Nor her guiltless Love confound. 

Modestly, without distraction. 
She made known her plan of action-— 
How she purposes to publish 
That she slew the murdered lord. 
For a while both friends objected 
To this plan that lone selected. 
Fearing it would be suspected 
And all things made doubly hard; 
Then they bowed to her decision, 
Taken from their better ward 
By her pleas and their regard. 



74 lone, 

Thus essentially won over 
Still to shield sweet lone's lover, 
Now the Master and the Captain 
Take their leave and go their way. 
lone marks their steps retreating 
Mingling with her heart's loud beating, 
And those footsteps seem repeating, 
"All is well: fear no dismay!'' 
And her heart takes up the burden 
When the footsteps die away — 
'''All is well : fear no dismay !" 

Now upon the gray sand kneeling, 

O'er her brow a warm blush stealing, 

lone thinks upon her lover 

And upon the coming years. 

No prophetic sorrow chills her, 

But the golden sunlight fills her 

With a gentle calm, — now thrills her 

Till she's flattered unto tears. 

She is happy, very happy, 

And she almost dreams she hears 

That far music of the spheres! 

But, alas ! the charm is broken 
By a greeting sternly spoken. 
And Corambis bends o'er lone 
x\nd her features coldly scan. 



And Other Poems. 75 

Rising up the maiden faces 
This rude traitor, and some paces 
Draweth backwards, as she places 
Little trust in voice or man. 
She knows both, yet guesses neither, 
For Corambis — 'tis his plan — 
Seems — disguised — another man. 



"My fair maiden, do not wonder 
How that name thou goest under," 
Thus Corambis, "grew familiar 
To these stranger lips of mine; 
Marvel not that I'm acquainted 
With thy thoughts so deeply tainted, 
Nor be awed when I have painted 
Every hope and fear of thine; 
But put all such wonder from thee 
And attend my every sign 
For I come with warning fine ! 

"In this land thou hast a lover 
And thou couldst a tale discover 
Which might bring this lover sorrow 
But would set thy father free. 
This I know, and know, moreover. 
That ye think to shield this lover, 
Yet in that same hour recover 



^6 lone, 

Thy good fathers liberty: — 
Thou dost purpose through a falsehood- 
Setting by thy modesty — 
To corrupt the law's decree ! 

^^But beware, for if thou swearest 
To this falsehood as thou darest, 
1^11 impeach thy testimony 
And thou'll lose thy foolish pains! 
Take not on thyself, false maiden, 
That strange murder of Lord Vedin, 
Or ere night thou shalt be laden 
With a perjurer's close chains; 
And, once swearing false, the judges 
Still will doubt thee: so remains 
Thy good father in his chains ! 

"But bear witness to that vision 
Which shall change the law's decision, 
To that vision of young Bertrand 
On the morn when Vedin fell. 
Swear thou saw him pale and bloody, 
With his vestment cut and muddy, 
As thou walked in early study 
In the field where Vedin fell. 
While, as for that other vision 
Where this youth seemed in a well, 
'Tis a dream ye must not tell. 



And Other Poems. 77 

^'Thus I charge thee, and my power 
Next the King's is chief this hour, 
And herefrom thy only safety 
And thy only hope shall spring! 
Therefore scheme not to deny me 
Or by silence to defy me. 
Nor with riches seek to buy me 
Or my heart attempt to wring; 
Thou canst move a dead man sooner 
Than this spirit which I bring, 
Long since past all altering." 

Like to one entranced or dreaming, 

lone marks the gray eyes gleaming 

In the brow of false Corambis, 

Nor could speak though she should try. 

So the dove amid the grasses 

I\Iarks the snake's eye as it glasses, 

With a charm mesmeric glasses. 

And can neither move nor cry ; 

But with lone 'tis amazement 

More than some mesmeric eye 

That enchains her dumbly by. 

Having done all in his power 
To corrupt love's sweetest hour, 
Now Corambis leaves the maiden 
And triumphant goes his way. 



78 lone, 

Down upon the gray sands falling 
Hapless lone — still recalling 
That strange warning and appalling — 
Hides her face from the bright day, 
And her blanched lips are silent. 
And her hands, though joined are they, 
Are not joined to plead or pray. 



Thus some moments she continues. 

All the strength gone from her sinews, 

Overcome in heart and body 

Though her mind is active still. 

But once more the sound comes stealing 

O'er her ear of far bells pealing. 

And she rises up, revealing 

In her face the griefs that kill — 

Pale despair and tearless sorrow. 

And a noble, tender will 

Helpless in the hour of ill. 

To the west she turns and passes 
Through the tall and clinging grasses. 
Staggering like one in sickness. 
Falling thrice upon her knee. 
Up the wind deep bells are swinging 
And her call to court are ringing; 
Deep-mouthed bells that now are bringing 



And Other Poems. 79 

Judge and clerk to hear her plea: — 
^Tis the hour for testimony — 
And pale lone holds the key 
To her father's liberty ! 

"I am coming, father, coming; 

Be thou patient; I am coming!" 

Now she cries and onward hastens 

To the tower of her trial. 

At the gates of alabaster 

Pale yet firm she greets the Master, 

But speaks not of that disaster 

Agonizing her the while. 

This she locks within her bosom 

And moves up the marble aisle 

Deep into the prison pile. 

To a chamber where tall torches 
Dimly light the hanging arches 
lone comes, but here the Master 
Cannot enter — so returns, 
lone comes: a clerk perceives her 
And with formal hand receives her ; 
To that spot he guides and leaves her 
Where the brightest taper burns, 
And each eye is on the maiden 
And the dullest eye discerns 
That her heart with sorrow yearns. 



So lone, 

Pale she looks, — and yet not daunted, 
Though, b}^ evil spirits haunted, — 
Pale and sad; yet in her bearing 
Strength there is and much of pride. 
But that strength comes near to failing 
And her pride seems unavailing 
As into the judgment railing 
Comes her father with his guide: 
Pity melts her gentle bosom, 
And she now can scarcely tide 
Tears that down her cheeks would glide. 

She would weep ! but ah for weeping 

Time and place are out of keeping, 

So her pride congeals the waters 

That arise unto her eye. 

She would weep ! but now the dial 

Points the hour for the trial. 

And she must not weep the while 

But be calm and testify ; 

She may weep when all is over 

And no judge or jury by. 

But till then her eyes be dry! 

On her right a clerk now rising — 
His commission exercising — 
Swears her in to be a witness 
And, so swearing, bids her speak: 



And Other Poems. 8i 

Speak the truth unbiased by feeling, 
Nothing adding, naught concealing, 
Speak the truth of every dealing 
For whose facts the law shall seek. — 
This he formally commands her, 
And sweet lone grows faint and weak 
With sick heart and blanched cheek ! 



Faint she grows and near to falling 

With an agony appalling. 

Thrice essaying and thrice failing 

To find speech to testify : 

But she thinks upon the morrow 

And her father freed from sorrow, 

And from such full thought doth borrow 

Strength and courage to reply — 

To bear witness 'gainst young Bertrand, 

And one moment gratify 

Her wronged sire ere he die! 

Word by word her lips discover 
That last vision of her lover. 
But no vision lone calls it 
Nor casts doubt upon its truth. 
Shade by shade, as she confesses — 
'Gainst her guiltless Love confesses! 
In the chamber's far recesses 



82 lone, 

Grows the image of that youth, 
Grows the image of young Bertrand, 
In his features — naught uncouth — 
Deep amazement mixed with ruth. 

'Tis a vision to the maiden. 

Fraught with shame, with horror laden; 

Such an insubstantial vision 

As she witnessed twice before. 

Yet she gives the court no token. 

Or by whispered word or spoken. 

That its privacy is broken 

And a wraith stands at the door; 

But her pale, thin lips continue 

In their charge as heretofore. 

While a cold dew bathes her o'er. 

On the wraith her fixed eyes bending. 
Through a time that seems unending, 
Still her lips beat out the story 
Of that vision of the mead. 
Still she speaks, and still that spirit 
Standing in the door, or near it, 
Listens to her speech, to hear it 
With a heart that still can bleed. 
With a human heart — and breaking — 
Still the lover gives her heed 
As her fatal words proceed ! 



And Other Poems. 83 

But an end comes to the story 
Of her Love all pale and gory 
Fleeing on that fatal morning 
From the mead where Vedin fell ; 
Yet pale lone is not seated. 
Though heT tale is now completed ; 
Still she stands, — all power fleeted 
'Gainst that vision to rebel, — 
For the countenance of Bertrand 
Draws her like a mystic spell 
Which she has no strength to quell. 

Still into the shadows peering, 
Nothing hoping, all things fearing, 
lone stands, and while thus standing 
Comes the judge's formal strain : 
"That this honored court's decision 
By no insubstantial vision. 
By no idle, gross misprision, 
Be corrupted and made vain, 
Let the witness testifying 
Answer — ^and so we constrain — 
This one question, then refrain. 

"Has this witness ere been haunted, 
Like unto a soul enchanted, 
By some insubstantial vision 
Such as judgment puts to flight ? 



84 lone, 

Has she seen in earth or heaven 
With the morn or noon or even. 
Or in waters under heaven, 
Any visionary sight? 
Has the presence of this Bertrand 
Haunted her by day or night 
While the youth was absent quite T' 

Deep into the shadows peering, 
Nothing hoping, all things fearing, 
lone stands, and slowly, lowly, 
Comes her answer, fraught with pain 
"?^o, my lord, I ne'er was haunted, 
By no empty presence haunted; 
Nor, like some rapt soul enchanted. 
Have I looked on visions vain. 
Nay, my lord, so rest my spirit, 
Never yet did vision chain 
Mine eyesight, or vex my brain !" 

Thus pale Tone, falsely swearing, 
Answers, while her eyes are staring 
Hard against the face of Bertrand, 
That a vision seems to be. 
But yet Tone's not enchanted, 
Nor the secret chamber haunted — 
It is Bertrand — pale and daunted — 



And Other Poems. 85 

Standing there so silently! 
By an accident he entered 
At the door, to hear and see 
What he vowed could never be I 

Now, as lone ceases speaking — 
Still her eyes those shadows seeking, — 
On her right a clerk uprises 
And calls on her father's name. 
Twice the summons is repeated. 
Twice the prisoner is greeted, 
But the old man still is seated. 
Deaf, it seems, or lost in shame; 
Still is seated, and no motion 
Stirs his aged, weary frame, 
Lighted up by fitful flame. 

"Cease thy summons; he is stricken 
Whom ye think by words to quicken V 
Thus a dark robed priest makes answer. 
Standing in the fitful light. 
"Lo, behold, his heart was broken 
Ere the witness yet had spoken ; 
Yea, he died ere yet one token 
Reached thine ears to set him right ! 
He is gone where is no error 
And now walks in Honor's sight 
With meek spirits and upright T 



86 lone, 

"Beadr the judge repeateth slowly, 
"Dead!" the walls re-echo lowly; 
''Deadr and with one cry to heaven 
lone sinks on dusty stone! 
*'Deadr a hollow sigh replieth 
From cold lips that none descrieth, — 
"Dead!" and where the torchlight dieth 
Fades a form that stood alone. 
"Dead! my lord ; but stay thy session 
Till this Bertrand shall atone 
For his guilt so clearly shown P 



PART IV. 

Id yon lonely field and barren — 

Long ago a noble's warren, 

But since blasted by the tempest — 

Stands a thatched and lowly cot: 

From its door no light is streaming 

Though 'tis dusk and few stars gleaming, 

Dusk, and all the waste seems dreaming 

Melancholy and forgot ; 

Dusk, and no sound save the complaining 

Of the owl from secret grot 

And the winds that sweep that spot. 



And Other Poems. 87 

To this shelter, dark and lowly, 
Lo, a woman struggles slowly, 
Through the waste of snow new-fallen. 
Faint, exhausted, struggles on ! 
Now she sinks to earth, betraying 
Wild despair, yet not delaying ! 
Now she kneels, and, dumbly praying. 
Creeps the icy ground upon ! 
By no clasp her hair is gathered. 
And her hood and cloak are gone. 
Torn away by gusts of dawn. 

Still the bitter winds pursue her, 

And it seems they will subdue her. 

But at last she gains the threshold 

Of that shelter dark and lone. 

Thrice in vain she knocks — then, kneeling, — 

Her faint brain with horror reeling ! — 

Calls aloud in voice appealing 

That some charity be shown; 

But the silence is unbroken 

Save by icy winds that moan 

O'er that shelter of rude stone. 

Eising now, she looks behind her 
At the snows that daze and blind her; 
Now she turns — and, lo, kind mercy 
Hath the door wide open thrown ! 



88 lone, 

In she enters, saying lowly, 

"God reward thee ; thou art holy !" 

But no answer comes, and slowly 

She perceives that she's alone, 

That the door wherethrough she entered 

By the wind was open blown, 

And no other welcome shown. 



Though no thanks to man be given. 
Deepest thanks are due to heaven, 
And most humbly they are rendered 
With meek heart and bended knee : 
"For this strength I have remaining, 
God, I thank thee, uncomplaining; 
I have asked, and — all-sustaining — 
Thou hast shown much grace to me : 
Let it grow till I have finished 
That which brought me o'er the sea 
And that drew me near to Thee." 

Ceasing now, she looks around her, 
Trembling, for the cold winds wound her. 
And the darkness makes her fearful 
Hiding what she does not know; 
But full soon the shadows lighten 
And her thoughts no more affrighten, 
For the hearth begins to brighten, 



And Other Poems. 89 

Fanned by winds that inward blow; 
And, behold, the room is lighted, 
As the bright flames come and go. 
By a warm and ruddy glow ! 

Closing now the door, and kneeling. 

With the firelight o'er her stealing, 

She gives way to dreams and slumber 

At worn nature's heavy call : 

But not long, for something haunts her, 

Something left unfinished haunts her, 

Some great work that grieves and daunts her^ 

Yet which she cannot recall; 

And she wakens from that slumber, 

Eesting on her like a pall^ 

With her pulse in fever s thrall. 

Suddenly she looks with wonder 

At a sword the mantle under. 

And a passionate cry escapes her 

As the firelight plays it o'er. 

Pale she grows with deep emotion. 

Pallid with a strange prenotion. 

And she kneels as in devotion 

Down upon the rush-strewn floor. 

Something in the sight hath stirred her 

As perhaps no sight before 

Ever stirred her bosom's core. 



90 lone, 

"Bertrand, Bertrand, have I found thee ? — 

Though despairing, have I found thee? 

Dost thou dwell in this far valley? 

Do I kneel where thou abide? 

'Tis thy sword ! — ^to thee 'twas given 

By my father now in heaven, 

And, although our love be riven, 

Thou hast cast it not aside ! 

'Tis thy sword ! and here I'll linger. 

Though thy love hath long since died, 

Till I hear thy step outside ! 

" 'Tis thy sword I — I'm not mistaken, 
Nor I dream, and shall awaken : 
See, ah see, thy name is graven 
Here upon the fretted guard! 
Ay, 'tis thine, and soon returning 
Thou Avilt find a bright fire burning. 
And I'll kneel, that not with spurning 
Thou wilt hear me — false, abhorr'd! 
And I'll tell thee how Corambis 
Hath confessed he slew that lord, 
And is gone to his reward ! 

"Surely, surely thou wilt hear me. 
Though I've wronged thee thou wilt hear me, 
For I've searched the wide world over. 
But to publish this to thee! 



And Other Poems. 91 

Much I've suffered, still abjuring 
Every joy; all things enduring; 
Through all seasons still assuring 
My sick soul that thou'd hear me; 
And thou wilt not spurn me, Bertrand, 
Till I speak and set thee free 
From that haunting infamy!'' 



Thus pale lone, lowly kneeling, 
With the fire light o'er her stealing, 
Touched with hope and stirred by passion. 
Lays her fraughted bosom bare. 
But her heart now shakes with terror. 
With a fell and sudden terror: — 
All, she fears, may be an error 
And her heart must needs despair; 
Bertrand may be dead or distant. 
And a stranger fallen heir 
To his weapon hanging there. 

Yet not long is she affrighted 
By these doubts her fears excited. 
For she finds upon the table 
Bertrand's ring that bears his seal. 
Near it — open to her glances — 
Lies a volume of romances — 
Prose and verse that time enhances. 



92 



one. 



And to sorr.ow most appeal : 
Bertrand's name is on the margin 
By the verse that cannot heal 
His sad heart, yet may reveal. 

"He will come again/' she whispers,- 
To the volume lowly whispers; 
" 'Tis his writing on thy margin, 
Next his voice and face most dear! 
He will come again, and, kneeling, — 
Nothing in that hour concealing, — 
I will bring his spirit healing, 
Though he loathe my presence here: 
I will tell him of Corambis, 
And he shall no longer fear 
For his life or freedom dear. 

"He will hate me, loathe, revile me. 
And for evermore exile me. 
Yet 'twere better, ah far better, 
That he hate me than forget ! 
He will loathe my name forever, 
Vea, forever and forever! — 
Or, perchance, the years will sever 
Memory's bonds that bind him yet, 
And in some brief fleeting seasons. 
Though I wronged him, he'll forget 
That we parted, or e'er met !" 



And Other Poems. 93 

Thus laments pale lone, believing 
Bertrand's scorn is past retrieving. 
Thus laments above the volume 
That shall shed a different light — 
O'er that volume of romances, 
At which she but merely glances, 
Till through better fate it chances 
That some verses meet her sight, 
Verges where the book lies open, 
And which Bertrand ere the night 
Eead with sad heart and contrite. 

"Here he read — the page is holy V 
She continues, rapt and lowly; 
"Here his eyes have lately rested. 
And I'll dare to read it o'er. 
Since I charged him with the slaying 
Of that lord, — all love betraying! — 
And he fled, — no hour staying 
Wherein I had told him more, — • 
I have nothing read, and haply 
It may blunt my pain to pore 
O'er these verses of — 'Elnore.' " 



94 lone, 



ELNORE. 

Deep I loved with love all holy, ere the demon 

Melancholy 
O'er my soul had cast its shadow — to be lifted 

nevermore ! 
For I loved as loves a spirit, such as without grief 

inherit 
Aidenn or the regions near it, where no cloud ere 

brooded o'er — 
Loved as spirits love in Aidenn, where no cloud 

ere brooded o'er — 

Loved the radiant Elnore. 

Ah, she walked in light from heaven, ere our an- 
cient love was riven, 

Ere my spirit rushed into eclipse upon a foreign 
shore, — 

Radiant as the star of morning that the angels 
are adorning; 

Star of love and sad forewarning that my spirit 
doth adore, 

Radiant as the star of morning that my spirit 
must adore. 

With its memories of Elnore. 



And Other Poems. 95 

Then my days were all of gladness, and my nights 

were without madness ; 
Music followed close behind me and her image 

went before: 
Every rose that blew to heaven, when we met at 

golden even, 
Blew again in sweet dreams given, to a Presence 

brooding o'er — 
Blew in blessed dreams of midnight to a Presence 

brooding o'er — 

The bright Presence of Elnore. 

But a change came o'er her brightness, and her 

heart took on a lightness 
Such as told her spirit wearied of the passionate 

love I bore; 
Such as whispered of another, dearer than a friend 

or brother. 
One whose lightest word could smother all my love 

that went before — 
One whose lightest word was dearer than my love 

that went before, — 

One beloved by lost Elnore. 

And I cast away all gladness to believe it in my 

madness, 
And the roses withered in my dreams to blossom 

nevermore : 



96 lone, 

All the light went out of heaven, when our an- 
cient love was riven, 

Save the bolts of fitful levin flaming o'er the 
troubled shore — 

Save the red and maddened levin flaming o'er 
the troubled shore, 

And the form of lost Elnore. 

Spuming love and love's last prophet, far I fled 
into a Tophet 

Where the shadow of the cypress hung fantas- 
tically o'er: 

Spurning her that love had painted as beyond all 
women sainted, 

With the demon Hate acquainted, soon I fled my 
native shore — 

With a demon in my bosom soon I fled my native 
shore. 

And the love of lost Elnore. 

Under some fantastic heaven whence the wraith 
of hope was driven, 

Long I searched for Lethe dim — to feel that death 
is not its shore. 

There one crescent moon of sorrow awakes mor- 
row unto morrow, 

And the pools a silence borrow from that planet 
hanging o'er — 



And Other Poems. 97 

Silence deep as death they borrow from that 
planet hanging o'er, 

Pale and wan as lost Elnore. 



By a dim titanic alley, leading to an ultimate 

valley, 
Whence the Dead alone return — return to haunt 

whom they adore, 
By dim sheeted figures haunted, such as might 

liave madness daunted, 
Long I dwelt as one enchanted by that planet 

hanging o'er, 
By that changeless, silent, wan and ghastly planet 

hanging o'er, 

With its dreams of lost Elnore. 



Dwelt until a spirit lonely whispered that my star 

was only 
As a planet in eclipse, to dawn upon a fairer 

shore, — 
Dwelt until with sweet insistence, haunting me 

without resistance, 
From the ultimate dim distance flowed the voice 

that I adore. 
Flowed the sweet, the sorrowful, the tender voice 

that I adore — 

The spirit voice of lost Elnore. 



98 lone, 

Sweeter than a voice from Aidenn was her sing- 
ing, sorrow laden, 

And I cast my heart beneath the spirit feet that 
pasi me o'er! 

Fearful was my soul and shaken that her love I 
had mistaken — 

That in scorn I had forsaken One that angels 
might adore, 

One that angels, happier for an earthly love, 
might well adore, 

And that One the lost Elnore. 

Yet I gave the night no token that my spirit had 

been broken. 
Though all Tophet had no tongue to tell the 

agony I bore; 
Neither lingered I till breaking of that moon that 

fiends were waking, 
'But, the instant way betaking^ came unto my 

native shore, 
Like a spirit from enchantment came unto my 

native shore, 

And the feet of lost Elnore. 

As the angels change in Aidenn, she had changed 

with sorrow laden ; 
Yea, she had become a spirit for whom death could 

do no more : 



And Other Poems. 99 

All of earth that clung around her were the roses 
pale that bound her, 

And the roses' scent that wound her in a fragrance 
evermore — 

In a fragrance that shall cling around the mem- 
ory evermore 

Of the meek and lost Elnore. 

She was sleeping by a fountain where the red 

earth meets the mountain, 
And the moonlight lay upon her eyes, and on the 

wreath she wore: 
She was sleeping — was she dreaming? dreaming 

of the fountain gleaming? 
Dreaming of the moonlight streaming? dreaming 

One was bending o'er, 
One who loved her dearer than the dead are loved 

was bending o'er — 

Bending o'er his lost Elnore? 

She was sleeping — was she sleeping? all my 

pulses in me leaping, 
Down beside her form I knelt, and from her heart 

the flowers tore: 
Surely I was not mistaken^ surely she would soon 

awaken ! — 
She had swooned with sorrow shaken, but the 

night was passing o'er. 



^•cfC. 



loo lone, 

All the bitter^ bitter night of sorrow then was 
passing o'er, 

Giving back my lost Elnore. 

So I kissed those eyes that borrow a fixed light 
from fleeting sorrow, 

Softly breathing Night was far behind and Morn- 
ing just before; 

And my heart drank deep of madness from the 
spirit's cnp of gladness, 

While my pulse o'erran the sadness that its ruddy 
current bore — 

While each pulse o'erran the sadness that its ruddy 
current bore. 

As it set to lost Elnore. 



Then a darkness fell around me, and a coil of 
horror bound me. 

And a growing light went out of heaven to re- 
turn no more! 

For — God — she did not waken ! — All the angels 
had forsaken 

Me, the madman, and had taken that bright spirit 
I adore; 

Heaven, with my coming, stooped and took that 
spirit I adore — 

Took the meek and lost Elnore. 



And Other Poems. loi 

Ah, the coldness of her ashes, whence no light of 

spirit flashes! 
Ah, the silence of her ashes that shall stir 

n..vermore ! 
Ah, the paleness of the roses that her sepulcher 

incloses ! 
Ah, the tears upon the roses springing from her 

marble door, 
Springing from her vaulted sepulcher, and from 

its marble door, 

And the dust of lost Elnore ! 

Like the lightning sudden flashing. 
Startling, daunting, and abashing, 
Are these verses unto lone 
Laying bare her lover's heart. 
And unto her bosom pressing 
That sweet volume and redressing, 
Much divining, still more guessing. 
She looks up with pallid start ; 
And her lips with passion tremble. 
And a moment lose all art 
To cry out or aught impart. 

"Can it be — God in heaven! — 
That the wrong is all forgiven. 
And this verse is as a message. 
Though not sent me, yet received? 



I02 lone, 

Is his pardon in these verses, 
And my sin no more accurses? 
May I hope this book disperses 
All the shadow that so grieved, 
And that he was drawing nearer 
In the dark, while I believed 
He had left me, nnreprieved ? 

"Was I blind, or is it blindness 

To believe in so great kindness — 

To belierve in perfect pardon 

By that heart that should reprove? 

That the old love which abounded 

Has been blessedly refounded, 

And the evil all redounded 

To my pity and my love; 

All the wrong and scorn inverted 

Till my sins perhaps now move 

More than once my guiltless love? 

''Ah, no, no; it were but madness 
To look forward to such gladness. 
For he surely will not pardon 
One that struck so harsh a blow! 
Or perhaps he hath forgiven 
Since he deems my soul in heaven, 
For the dead are soon foroiven 



And Other Poems. 103 

But the living hardly so, 
And he will retract that pardon 
When in time he conies to know 
That I have not been laid low V 

Thus sweet lone 'twixt joy and sorrow 
Trembles, while hcT features borrow 
Now the grayness of the ashes, 
Now the scarlet of the flame. 
But again she reads the verses 
And their mystery rehearses, — 
While their tenderness immerses 
Her bowed face in tears of shame — 
And the verses seem to lone 
Her forgiveness, though the same 
Bear another maiden's name. 

"Ye reflect his present feeling — 
More than spoken words revealing," 
Now she whispers to the verses. 
And her heart with faith leaps high. 
"But ah wherefore still delays he? 
In the darkness whereat strays he? 
Does he wait the moon, or stays he 
Till the bitter wind shall die? 
Plas he gone tov/ard the ooean. 
Or toward the hills tliat lie 
Northward, with their weight of sky? 



104 lone, 

"Yet, Bertrand/' she continues, 
"Though it crack my heart's tense sinews, 
1^11 have patience till thy coming. 
Be it one hour hence or four." 
But wild fears arise to grieve her. 
Deepened by her pulses' fever, 
And in some brief moments leave her 
Eestless as she was before: 
Horrid fears that shake her bosom 
And that drive her to the door 
Where the cold wind chills her o'er. 

In the snow are footsteps leading 
From the threshold, but proceeding 
Where she knows not, though she guesses 
On toward the beating tide. 
Seeing which her heart is shaken 
With the dread that she's forsaken — 
Bertrand may perhaps have taken 
Fare^vell of that warren wide, — 
With the day his farewell taken 
And gone elsewhere to abide. 
Lost to her without a guide ! 

Or a cruel death may threat him. 
And with fearful odds beset him — 
On the snow he may lie helpless 
By the bitter cold subdued ! 



And Other Poems. 105 

Yea, while she was lowly kneeling 

By the firelight warm and healing, 

Death^s deep sleep may have been stealing 

O^er his eyes with mists bedewed, 

And his spirit may have yielded 

To Death's angel that pursued 

Him down that white solitude! 



Yet, in following some distance, 
She may be of true assistance, 
And she dares to seek her lover 
For her heart is filled with doubt. 
Though tlie evening has grown colder 
She is warmer now and bolder, 
And she throws across her shoulder 
Bertrand's cloak and ventures out; 
Out into the snow she ventures 
On her mission most devout — 
And the night wraps her about. 

Frozen waters lie before her 
And a frozen sky is o'er her, 
In the east the moon is leaning 
Hard against the frozen hills. 
All seems frozen save the ocean 
With its never-ceasing motion; 
All ! and now a cold prenotion 



io6 . lone, 

Seizes Tone's heart and chills, 
Chills its deep and warm pulsations 
Like an icy hand that stills 
What it touches, and then kills! 

Strange forebodings of a danger 
Unto which she seems no stranger, 
For she feels that she has suffered 
All its threatened pains before! 
Where, she knows not, yet she guesses — 
Searching memory's recesses — 
In some dream^ and fear oppresses 
Her cold bosom more and more; 
More and more her heart is troubled 
As she hears the increasing roar 
Of the surf upon the shore. 

She hath trod in dreams that warren, 

Dim, forsaken, cold and barren, 

She hath heard in dreams the beating 

Of yon surf upon the strand ! 

She hath felt this night around her. 

Felt in dreams the winds that wound her,- 

Heard those cries that now confound her 

Coming o'er the waste of land ! 

And — God — ^hath she not witnessed 

Him that struggles in quicksand, 

With one vain, uplifted hand! 



And Other Poems. 107 

Like to one whose heart is daunted 
In a dream by horror haunted. 
And can neither cry nor struggle, 
lone's rooted to the ground. 
There before her some few paces — 
Whence no foot its path retraces — 
In the quicksand's fell embraces, 
Is her Lover — lost, though found! 
And his eyes are turned toward her, 
And there comes a bubbling sound 
From his lips by waters bound. 

For some hideous moments — seeming 

As an age — pale lone stands dreaming, 

Then she shrieks the name of "Bertrand !"— 

''Bertrand, Bertrand, speak to me!" 

But no answer from her Lover, 

For the rising waters hover 

At his bubbling lips, and cover 

All his mouth as she may see; 

But as yet his lifted forehead^ 

And his eyes and nose are free 

Of the quicksands and the sea. 

In the presence of this vision, 
Helpless in her indecision, 
lone reels some fearful moments — • 
Now leaps forward with wild cry; 



<:)S lone. 

Now leaps ' forward, vainly thinking 
She can save her Love from sinking, 
But she feels the quicksands linking 
Her own feet, and she will die, 
Die a death too quick and fearful 
Should she further madly try 
To free him imprisoned by. 

So she pauses and looks 'round her. 
But the le^'el snows confound her — 
Nowhere is there bough or cordage. 
She may cast to Bertrand's hand; 
And she cannot bring assistance 
From the cot far in the distance — 
There is naught to make resistance 
'Gainst the treacherous quicksand : 
She must watch the salty waters 
Rise along the fatal strand, 
With no power to command. 

Yea, upon the loose sands kneeling,— 
With white face to God appealing, — 
She must watch the consummation 
Hidden by no kindly cloud! 
Watch the waters — ^unretreating — 
'Gainst her Lover's lips still beating, 
'Gainst those lips shut from repeating 



And Other Poems. 109 

Prayers beneath their wat'ry shroud ! 
Watch the tide as it comes creeping 
To his forehead, once so proud, 
Now to dark oblivion bowed ! 

No ! her love ihm fear is stronger, 
And she hesitates no longer — 
Starting up she flings her body 
O'er the deadly stretch of strand, 
And a moment more is bending 
O'er her Love with death contending, 
While her woman's arms are lending 
All the strength at their command! 
Strength that drags her Lover upwards 
Some few inches in the sand, 
And sets free his lips and hand. 

''Bertrand, Bertrand, let me save thee, 
Since I wronged thee let me save thee; 
Drag me down and tread upon me. 
And escape unto the shore! 
Look, the tide is rising o'er thee. 
But the shore is just before thee — 
Drag me down, oh I implore thee, 
And escape ere all is o'er ! 
I have wronged thee past all pardon, 
Shamed that honored name ye bore, 
And am fit to love no more !" 



no lone, 

"lone !' ' Bertrand cries in horror — 
In his face not hate but sorrow, — 
"0, my God, thou canst not save me, 
And thyself must perish too! 
Quick ! I'll cast thee to the ocean. 
And perhaps the sea in motion 
Will sustain thee, and that motion 
Bear thee from this awful slew: 
Thou art to thy knees in quicksand — 
Yet I have the strength of two 
And will save thee. Thou wast true!'* 

But he cannot, though he borrow 

Strength from every pulse of horror. 

For pale lone clings about him. 

And his labors are in vain: 

Vain, too, is the passionate pleading 

Of his heart with sorrow bleeding, 

Vain, quite vain, for still, unheeding, 

lone chooses to remain ; 

Neither prayers nor force can move her 

To forsake her Love in pain, 

And the living shore regain. 

"Cease, cease thy vain endeavor. 
For I'll never leave thee — never! 
Here lies death, but there lies madness. 
And I rather choose to die. 



And Other Poems. in 

Let me be : since thou must perish, 
Here I also choose to perish; 
Thou art all I love and cherish, 
And I care not Death is by. 
No, no, no, thou shall not free me ! — 
If thou dost I'll come and lie 
Here when thou canst not defy." 

" 'Tis too late for prayer or endeavor ; 
Too, too late: thou'rt lost forever!" 
Bertrand moans in fearful answer 
Straining lone to his face. 
"0, my God, I have no power 
To defend thee in this hour ; 
I am down and now must cower 
Till Death strike me from my place! 
Ah, I feel like some false coward, 
Or a loAV born slave and base, 
And would hide me from disgrace!" 

"Hush!" pale lone answers lowly, 

"I am now encompassed wholly 

And 'tis no dishonor to thee 

That thou canst not set me free. 

0, but say that I'm forgiven, 

And thou hast done more than striven. 

Thou hast answered a prayer for heaven, 



112 lone, 

And what more can chivalry? 

Say I'm pardoned — tliough 'tis selfish 

That I ask so much of thee 

In this hour of agony." 

"Ah, sweet lone^ if 'twere given 
I should be accurst of heaven, 
For ^tis I that needs be pardoned, 
Pardoned both by God and thee. 
I have wronged thee, for that vision 
Which so changed the law's decision 
Was a strange, prophetic vision 
On thy part of times to be; 
'Twas no falsehood as I deemed it, 
But indeed ye spoke of me 
As one speaks in prophecy. 

"On yon warren I was halted 

By a robber and assaulted : 

So I slew him — there receiving 

Wounds thou hadst described before! 

All my face was pale and bloody, 

And my clothing cut and muddy. 

Even as thou saw in study 

On Hispania's far-off shore; 

And — God — I knew thee guiltless 

When I saw the form I bore 

In a pool I bended o'er !" 



And Other Poems. 113 

"Bertrand, Bertrand, then thou knowest. 

And I'm lifted from the lowest !'^ 

lone cries, and, softly weeping. 

Touches Bertrand on the brow. 

"Then thou knowest 'twas not all treason 

Which I spoke in that sad season ! — 

Yet I wronged thee, but my reason 

Was subdued by frenzied woe; 

0, I swore it was no vision, 

Yet 'twas sorrow and a foe 

That made me to stoop so low !" 

"Hush!'' her lover whispers lowly, 

"I will trust thee, trust thee wholly; 

Through my doublings of thy honor 

I have suffered, not through thee. 

Had I trusted thee erewhile 

I had never fled my trial, 

Nor become a weak exile, 

Nor had perished by this sea. 

I am weighed and am found wanting 

In the truth of constancy, 

And the Lord hath punished me !" 

lone bends her lips to answer, 
Vv'ords of humbleness to answer. 
But the waters dash against them 
And forever they are sealed. — 



114 lone, 

Now her eyes' v.-itli ^tartl'i'J motion 

Turn tov/ard the beating ocean, 

And her hands as in devotion 

Are uplifted and revealed : 

Now she la3^s her face to Bertrand's, 

And her pallor is concealed 

In his face all cold and steeled. 

Night, and no sound ! save the beating 
Of the sea — its dirge repeating, 
Save the voice of winds that wander 
Down the lonel}^ barren strand : 
Night, and no stars ! save one gleaming- 
Like a frozen taper gleaming — 
O'er the waste that now lies dreaming 
Dreams that none may understand: 
Night! and iliese are joined forever 
In the quietness of the sand. 
Face Against face, and hand in hand ! 



And Other Poems. 115 



ROSABELL 



PAET I. 



O dales of Arcady, adieu ! 

I've looked upon a fairer land: 

An air comes to me from its strand. 

An echo from its mountains blue. 

May brings her roses here and dreams; 
June comes upon the laden air, 
Unclasps the jewels in her hair 

And revels by the limpid streams. 

The undulating meads of gold 
Are newly washed in freshest dew, 
And milder winds than ever blew 

In Tempe warm the leafy mold. 



Ii6 lone, 

Far off the deep-starred western sea, 
Dyed by unnumbered sunsets bright, 
Sends back a silver shaft of light 

To Phoebe o'er the greenwood tree. 

The gates of morning in the east 
Are founded by a crystal lake, 
Wherein a second morn doth break. 

And light and beauty are increast. 

The gates of evening sweep the sea 
And open outward on the deep: 
Here Day goes forth and balmy Sleep 

Comes in with spirit company. 

Sweet land, thy light is on my page ; 
Thy name is like a woman's name — 
Beloved! And he that dare defame 

A wrestling spirit shall engage. 

But 'tis of Eosabell I sing. 

Chiefly of her, bright land and free ; 

So breathe her name again to me, 
And I will touch a sweeter string. 

Of Eosabell— and Theodore! 

Ah, Muse, forget not his dear name. 
And with the gold of summer frame 

Phis constant pair forevermore. 



And Other Poems. 117 

Ere yonder budded tulip sprung, 
Where sucks the summer-nourished bee 
A bark lay dancing on the sea, 

The blue and sunny waves among. 

The gentle winds tliat kist its side 
And bore it to yon silver strand 
Brought Summer also in the land, 

And clothed the valleys as a bride. 

At twilight from this white-winged bark 
A little maiden stepped ashore 
And danced along the pebbled floor 

Of ocean, with eyes all dewy dark. 

Then upward passed from those moist sands, 
Her soft eyes closed in balmy rest. 
The sweetest dreamer at the breast 

Of Sleep, long waiting with stretched hands. 

Where is the mother there is home. 

And quietly through the night she slept. 
Nor opened her dewy eyes, nor wept 

That she had crossed the ocean's foam. 

And breathed no more her native air; 
Nor smelt the fragrant heliotrope 
That used to climb her casement ope 

And turn to her its petals fair. 



ii8 lone, 

Then morning came with rosy hand 
And waked her to the Southern chanere. 
And all was novel, all was strange: — 

Ah, so unlike her native land ! 

But shade by shade it passed away — 
The wonder and the novelty, 
iind dancing by the sunny sea 

Or with her gentle mates at play, 

H^r distant home became a dream 
iVnd was forgotten with the year. 
Forgotten with the childhood tear 

That fell at parting in extreme 

Of tender sorrow. So the rose, 
Transplanted to a warmer bed, 
Wooes but the zephyrs overhead, 

Nor of its native bower knows. 

Then gentle Spring led Summer on, 
And each led Beauty by the hand, 
And there was fragrance in the land 

From thyme and lind and new-mown lawn. 

Then golden Autumn flushed the west, 
And faded like the setting sun; 
But Winter scarcely had begun 

Ere Spring returned with flowered vest. 



And Other Poems. 1 1 ) 

Twice seven times the golden spring 
Eekindled then the firnianient. 
Twice seven Summers came and went, 

Such as the skies of Cashmere bring: 

And Rosabell walked through the vale 
And gathered flowers for her hair, 
And knew that she was very fair 

With scarlet lips and forehead pale. 

And gracious pride was in her heart; 
A lovely thing seen through the sphere 
And depth of woman's eyes, when clear 

And large, and lustrous to impart. 

And love she knew, and wreathed her hair, 
By bright reflection in the brook, 
With starry buds and bells that shook 

Their dews upon her shoulders fair. 

A lover's footprint in the vale, 

A lover's footprint on the hill !— 
Ah, was it not enough to fill 

Her life with romance, and prevail — 

While Summer still was in the bloom — - 
Against her heart, though fortified 
By virgin modesty and pride, 

And every foreign thought entomb ! 



I20 lone, 

From Love s bright casement slie had ta'en 
Her first sweet glimpses of the world, 
While 'round her lustrous forehead curled 

The passion flower, unprofane. 

And dear those glimpses to her heart, 
iVnd trebly dear young Theodore, 
AVho made her then and evermore 

The Eros of his life and art. 

"Ah, it is kindness to be faiir, 

Tis kindness passing dear,'^ she said, 
As o'er the running stream was spread 

The beauty of her loosened hair. 

Dark hair, dark-clustering and fine, 
The hair of Miranda in her youth. 
Half veiling eyes of liquid truth 

Dark, deep, and sacred to the Nine. 

"But to be loved is more than kind. 
Is more than beauty !" Here she looks 
To heaven, glancing from the brooks, 

And heaven seems of equal mind. 

"Why tarriest thou, my Theodore? 

what excuse mak'st thou thy heart? 

And dost thou play the laggard's part 
Who split the moments heretofore 



And Other Poems. 121 

"And vowed each half eternity 

When thou wast absent from my side? — 
The laggard's part! woe betide, 

'Twere better that thou ill shouldst be ! 

"0 sweet to nurse a lover ill, 

Eiit death to nurse a sickened faith! 
Ah, better to look on thy wraith 
Than on thy love, dead, cold, and still ! 

"The roses dream at twilight's gate — 
pluck them, Love, and come to me: 
The sun broods o'er the sunset sea — 

share its beauty ere too late. 

"Blue hills have kissed the bluer sky 
And bid 'Good night!' The silver bow, 
New bent in heaven, 'gins to glow. 

And, Love, the hour of rest draws nigh. 

"The moeking-bird is in the thorn — 
Ah, let him mock thy sweet 'Good night !' 
Until the morning's goldefn light. 

Then all day long mock thy 'Good morn !' " 

She paused, and footsteps filled the space. 
The footsteps of young Theodore. 
"Sweet Love," he smiled, "they should adore 

Who Cometh late with warmer grace." 



122 lone, 

^^Ay me !" she said, with eyes withdrawn 
And fixed upon the senseless ground, 
"Time lost in love is never found; 

'Tis lost — ^'tis lost, 'tis mourned; quite gone! 

*^Hast thou another love than me 
That thou didst linger in the vale? 
Or was it but the nightingale 

That held thee spellbound o'er the leaP 

"Nay, Love, no other love is mine. 
Or if another love there be 
I love that other love for thee. 

Which is Olympus' sacred Nine. 

"As winds a brook through garden ways 
Reflecting heaven's image fair, 
Thou knowest that this love I bear 

\A linked light winds through my lays." 

*'Thou lovest numbers more than me," 
Fond Rosabell made low reply: 
"'Twere better that thy Muse should die 

Than steal thy love away from thee. 

'^Bright summer and the fragrant spring, 
The morning and the evening star, 
Thou lovest not for what they are 

But that of them thou mayest sing. 



And Other Poems. 123 

"And losing me thou wouldst not faint 
That thou hadst lost a living love, 
But something worshipped far above — 

A subject for thy Muse to paint !" 

'^Honor the verse which honors thee," — 
Thus Theodore with tender mien, — 
"And where thou glean' st delight glean 

Forbearance for some frailty." 

"Alas!" fond Eosabell replied, 

As heaved her breast with stifled moan, 
"How shall thy honeyed lines atone 

For bitteT absence from my side ? 

"Than linked verse or stately prose 
Thy voice more pleasant is and bland, 
And one sweet primrose from thy hand 

Were more than Fancy's scentless rose. 

"Then cease to sound Parnassus' spring 
And sound a loving woman's heart ! 
The lover's not the poet's part 

Be thine, ere alPs past altering." 

"0, Love/' thus Theodore in pain, 
"What though I tarry from thy side 
And make the wind or beating tide 

An hollow ear to mark my strain? — 



124 lone, 

"Thou art my song and what inspires, 
Thon art the music of my lines ; 
And thou the Heart my verse enshrines, 

The spring of all my best desires. 

'Thou art the ^vhite light of my soul, 
The pole-star of my spirit's bark ! — 
Ah, Eosabell, thou dost not mark, 

IsTor judge me fair, nor judge me whole !'' 

And so these gentle lovers met, 
And, meeting, quarreled without cause, 
And drew apart, and there was pause, 

A pause, it seemed, without regret. 

But lovers' quarrels beneath the moon 
Are neither madness nor are sin ; 
They're something, nothing; all akin 

To idle dreams when no hearts swoon. 

So music fled back to their lips, 

And love and gladness shared their speech. 

And either softly did beseech 
Forgiveness for his love's eclipse. 

And it was twilight ! O'er the sea 
The march of golden stars began, 
And gentle winds arose to fan 

The new-blown musk by vale and lea. 



And Other Poems. 125 

'Twas twilight, and bright Phoebe moved 
Toward her throne with gentle pace : 
The deep looked in her lustrous face 

And kindled like a thing that loved ! 

'Twas twilight, and the distance seemed 

To empty into visions wide 

Of mystic mountains swilled by the tide, 
Such as in childhood we have dreamed. 

0, Nature, from my halting hand 

Take thou the pencil, for I feel 

My inability to reveal 
The beauty of this twilight land. 

Take thou the pencil and paint on! 

But chiefly paint this loving pair, 

In colors that thou only dare 
To mix and mingle, and anon 

Thy poet shall resume his part, 
And follow thee as one who knew. 
And, knowing, wrought e'en to the dew 

Dim hidden in the rose^s heart. 

Paint thou the parting low and sweet 

Of Eosabell and Theodore; 

Paint thou bright Phoebe bending o'er, 
And waters shining at their feet. 



126 lone, 

Great Artist, paini thy tender face 

Soft listening to their sweet "Good night !" 
And mingle with thy warmth the light 

Both thine to radiate and trace. 

Paint thou these lovers gone to rest, 
And close the first part of my dream ; — 
One touch by thee will half redeem 

The verse, and give it interest. 



PAET II. 

Wake not the dreaming Hours, Morn, 
Upon their heads is Sorrow's crown, 
While wreathed about their foreheads' frown 

The wormwood twines the nettle thorn ! 

^Yithhold thy flame, ye golden sun ; 

Thou light' st but Sorrow to her thorns, 
For Hope's sweet wreath no more adorns 

Fair Eosabell, the lovely One! 

At midnight, by the silver sea, 
Where poets love to walk and dream. 
Young Theodore, in love's extreme. 

Addressed bright Phoebe, ardently. 



And Other Poems. 127 

Bright Phoebe, Queen of love and night, 
That was with Beauty from the first ! 
And all his spirit was athirst 

And hungered, e'en in love's despite. 

Hungered for that which many name 
But only Spirits comprehend. 
So far its fineness doth transcend 

Man, to his sorrow and his shame. 

They call it "Ideality," 

Who call it wisely,— "Ideal love !" 

Which lifts the spirit far above 
The passions of humanity. 

At midnight, by the silver sea, 

Young Theodore, communing, walked, 
When from the deeper shadows stalked 

Three strangers, speaking sullenly. 

With straining thongs they bound his hands, 
With bitter goad they prest him on, 
And ere the breaking of the dawn 

Bore him away for foreign lands. 

In Cyprus he remained a slave! — 
They counted o'er their gains as gain 
These evil Three, nor felt they pain. 

And crost again the ocean's wave. 



128 lone, 

Weep, weep, ye starry buds and bells, 
Turn all your silver dew to tears; 
And pour from out your hollow spheres 

The light of dawn^ ye asphodels ! 

And, awake, ye mocking-bird, 
Awake, awake, for Sorrow wakes! 
And mourn with Eosabell, who aches 

With horrid fear, and dreads each word 

As tidings of a stricken Love, 

Since, living, he would not delay 
Upon his promised bridal day, 

But hasten swift as homing dove. 

"He Cometh not !" she softly said : 

"He Cometh not !" her maidens sighed. 
"He is delayed ; let us not chide !" 

"Absent, but coming: lift thy head!" 

But Night and not the Bridegroom comes, 
x\nd Sorrow leads the Bride apart : 
Alone, and with a broken heart, 

Almost her gentle life succumbs. 

But hope dies not within a night, 
And wheu the golden morning broke 
She smiled, as though her lover spoke, 

And passed into the growing light. 



And Other Poems. I2'9 

She looked upon the albatross, 
The albatross looked on the sail 
That bore young Theodore, all pale, 

Down love's horizon and across. 

'Mid hyacinth and geraniums 

She walked, and wreathed her tresses dear : 
''It would delight him were he here. 

It will delight him when he comes," 

She said, and kist the flowers hard 
That fell about her shoulders fair : 
And afterwards she spread her hair 

Above the brook with sunlight barred. 

Her image from the waters smiled, 

And softly she began to sing 

A roundelay of love and spring, 
And thus the morning hours beguiled. 

Then twilight came, and o'er her face 

A shadow not of evening fell ; 

A shadow morn would not dispel, 
Nor noon-day soften, nor spring efface. 

"0 God, how near is life to death !" 

She moaned — "For I must think him dead ; 
The glory from his eyes quite fled, 

And from his lips the loving breath. 



130 lone, 

"A step in darkness and he sank 

Into the river's risen tide; 

No hand to aid, no light to guide. 
It bore him swiftly from the bank ! 

"The seaweed clings about his breast 
In cold embraces, while my arms 
Are empty. Given to rude storms, 

I may not mourn above his rest. 

"Xor look again upon his face, 

Nor touch his gentle brow — though dead 
Nor teach the cypress how to spread 

Its shade above his resting place. 

"I have nowhere to greet him dead — 
Love is denied me and love's grave ! 
The Hand hath taken that once gave, 

And taken all with life's shorn thread ! 



"0 God, I knew that I must bear 
And I am willing to submit, 
But ah, not this! I am unfit 

And cannot live through such despair. 

"Give me to blindness and disgrace 
But let me touch his hand again ; 
Bring me into the viper's den 

But let me look upon his face. 



And Other Poems. 131 

"Uncrown me of all human trust 
But give him quick into my arms; 
Let Death awake his rude alarms 

But give his spirit back — or dust. 

"Ah, any — ^anything but this ; 
All evil that is felt or feared 
Be mine to bear, uneased, uncheered. 

But give back the face I miss!" 

She ceased, and loving friends drew near 
Who sought to comfort and sustain. 
But idle was their love and vain, 

Nor wiped away one cadent tear. 

Hope had no healing for her heart 
And sweet religion had no balm. 
Yet meek she was and strangely calm, — 

But sought to be alone, apart. 

The second evening came and went 
But without tidings of her Love, 
Though twenty searched the hills above 

And twenty to the vales were sent. 

Day followed day, but brought no hope, 
N'ight followed night without surcease. 
And Eosabell pra3'ed for release. 

And (.larkling for Death's hand did grope. 



*3^ lone, 

81ie peered into the ervF^tal stream 
To mark her beauty, ah, no more ! — 
She searched for her dead Theodore, 

With upturned face as in a dream ! 

She hastened to the summer vale 
To gather flowers, ah, no more! 
She searched for her dead Theodore, 

With glazed eye and forehead pale ! 

One handful of his dust in vain 

She craved, to plant the rose above. 
Who late asked Heaven for her Love, 

Warm, living, without hurt or stain. 

But growing humble with the year 
She asked but knowledge of his grave — 
Whether 'twas on the land or wave. 

Though she might never draw more near. 

Neither lier Love nor yet his dust 
She asked of Heaven, but to know 
Where her Love's body was laid low, 

And Heaven's silence seemed unjust. 

Then from the heavens passed a light 
As from a casement some loved face. 
And Winter shut the skies a space — 

Shut as a casement for a night. 



And Other Poems. 133 

Tlien Spring once more with glowing liand 
Baptized the rose in dew and iiame, 
And to that sweet baptism came 

Hope, with the ahnond in her hand. 

She toolv the aloe from Love's brow 
And set a crown of roses there, 
And in Love's gentle hand, all bare, 

She placed her budded almond bough. 

"It cannot be that he is dead," 
Thus Kosabell amid the field, 
"Or else my searching had revealed 

Where death prepared my true Love's bed. 

"It cannot be that he is dead. 
Or else his spirit would return 
From where the newly dead sojourn, 

And hover o'er the bridal bed. 

"Immortal Spring her roses gaye 
For him to paint, not for his bier, 
And Summer stoopt but to endear 

His sunny verse, not deck his grave. 

"He was an instrument apart, 

For Beauty^s touch and Beauty's hand 
Kept sacred ; and death could not command 

Nor crack the lute strings of his heart. 



134 ^<^^^» 

*'Thf? stately lilies spring and glow 
Like tapers on the twilight lea, 
Tall tapers lighting Faith to me, 

Witliin her hand the hawthorn bough. 

"Hope, like the winter bird, returns. 
That buildeth at my open door, 
And all the day doth sing and soar, 

Nor ceases till bright sunset burns. 

"No, no, I cannot think him dead — 

Though weakness trusts 'tis madness doubts; 
And ere in sweet and purple routs 

The violets come, his gentle tread 

"Shall press the lawn beside my door, 
His eager hand be on the latch. 
And from that moment I shall snatch 

A light to guide me evermore !" 

"He comes!" she whispers to the rose; 
The rose looks upward in her face 
Thanking bright June with tender grace 

Is bending o'er, and warmer glows. 

"He comes, ye stream ; comes as of old : 
Prepare to see his face again: 
Leave thou the lowlands and the fen 

And make thy bed on sands of gold! 



And Other Poems. 135 

"He comes, ye stars of summer night ! 
Kiss ye dark places with the news 
And make them glow. He comes, ye dews; 

His path is o'er ye as the light I 

"Ye hills that see my Love afar, 

Whisper his coming to the vale — 

In twilight waits the nightingale 
And trembles like a quiring star 

"To hymn his return. And thou sweet lark 
That drink'st the dew at heaven's gate. 
Unto two worlds with song elate 

Publish the coming of his bark !" 

Informed by hope as some sweet wine 

Fair Eosabell gave way to joy 

That knew nor surcease nor alloy, 
But deeper grew and more divine. 

The current of her thoughts had turned 

And into brighter channels passed ; 

No more her spirit was o'excast 
But glowed with every light that burned. 

So turns aside a stream that flows 
Through channels of a darkened fen, 
And glides o'er fields Elysian 

With light upon it from the rose. 



136 lone, 

Once more she v/reathed her loosened hair 
With flowers of the middle Spring, 
And taught sweet Echo how to sing 

And wake soft laughter in the air. 

Once more above the running stream — 
Her beauty flushed with gentle pride — 
She hung enamoured, as if she spied 

Reflected there her dearest dream. 

But, ah, no visionary light 

Transfixed her, Ijut lier own face. 

Her own sweet eyes and forehead's grace. 

And sloping shoulders smooth and white. 

And why she gazed thus earnestly 
Was partly that her face was dear 
To Theodore, and partly fear 

That grief had wrought deformity. 

And partly that the human face. 
Divine, is dearer to the heart 
That hath known sorrow ; and in part 

'Twas naught but play and maiden grace. 

Thus Spring returned and with her Hope, 
And Summer met them in the dell, 
And bid the gentle Spring farewell 

But parted not with gracious Hope. 



And Other Poems. 137 

And flowers sprung at Summer's feet 
And little children played in the beam, 
And all the land bei-auie a dream 

Of color and of childhood sweet. 

So leave the gentle Rosabell, 

With childhood laughter in her ear, 
Bright waters at her feet and clear, 

And in her hand the asphodel. 

A bark is dnncing on the sea 

AvA leads [h rough golden floods her Love, 

Her Theodore: — while far above 
The lark pov.rs forth its melody! 



138 lone. 



FLORENCE. 



PAKT I. 



By the Tiber dwelt a maideii, nobly bom — 

Ah, fair she was as a rose by Fancy's spring ! — 

Dwelt in a garden where the golden morn 
Winged music from the palace of the king; 

Sweet prelude to the huntsman's silver horn 
Shaking the drowsy dew from falcon's wing; 

Sweet prelude that the Prince aloft did wake, 

Touching the morning harp for Music's blessed 
sake. 

II. 

She wore the purple in her lovely eyes, 

Twin stars of vesper 'neath her morning hair. 

And ruled with song, with laughter, and with 
sighs 
A little kingdom wonderfully fair. 



And Other Poems. 139 

A pleasant garden seat 'neath perfect skies. 
High walled about and open to the air, 
Where sweet birds sang and fragrant flowers grew. 
And love came early, and sorrows not at all, or few. 



III. 



Florence, they named her in this garden seat, 
And sweeter to the mother faint and wan 

Than "roses" spelt in roses at her feet 

That name became; but ere the summer^s dawn 

The mother faded with the drowsy heat 

Of Phoebus brooding o'er the sloping lawn, 

And left sweet Florence to the loving care 

Of hands that smoothed back that dying mother's 
hair. 



IV. 



Twilight in heaven, morn within her hair, 
Morning in heaven, dusk within her eye, 

Sweet Florence grew — ah, dear above compare !- 
And moved amid the flowers of splendid dye 

Bright as a Naiad of the fountain there. 

Or looked at morning from her lattice high 

Like a high-born maiden looking o'er the sea 

From casement set in the gold of olden poesy. 



I40 lone, 

V. 

Within the garden, like a spirit bright, 
A fountain clomb to heaven with its dew, 

Ever to fall to earth inweaved with light 
And star the flowers that around it grew. 

In twilight's front the Bird of love and night 
Thrilled the dim foliage of the avenue; 

And here the morning lark rose up elate, 

x\nd found the earthly love it sung at heaven's 
gate! 

VI. 

Twilight in heaven, morn within her heart. 
Sweet Florence prest the dewy leaves among: 

A tender kinship was her utmost art 

Who trained the flowers as on threads of song 

To climb above the fountain and impart 

A fragrance such as hanging walls prolong, 

A fragrance and a light that led the Prince 

Unto that garden the dews of song have watered 
since. 

VII. 

Back from the chase at break of golden eve 
The Prince with revelry and consort came: 

A favorite falcon clung unto his sleeve. 
Veiling its drowsy eye gainst sunset flame; 



And Other Poems. 141 

Before him went two heralds to receive 

AVith gates wide thrown and sovereign acclaim 
The N"obles coming from the morning chase, 
xiud Heir to Italy's throne and Heaven's tender 



VIII. 

Past tower, moat, and grange the Prince rode on: 
Afar the bright imperial palace shone 

Like adamant hewn from the golden sun — 
Throned on a starry eminence, alone ! 

But soon, upon the upland's verdant lawn, 

The Prince and consort came unto the stone, 

The sculptured stone and column of the gate 

That led unto the gardens where sweet Florence 
sate. 



IX. 



She sate within the dusk of hanging walls 
Singing a ditty of delicious glee : 

Melodious as the blind Philomel calls 
Unto the Eose he nevermore shall see. 

It came o'er the Prince's ear, whose marble halls 
Flushed never with such dulcet harmony; 

And hushed was the revel of his train, 

So sweet the roundelay^ so tender the refrain. 



142 lone, 

X. 

The lark hath not one feather tipped with gold, 

Philomel, midst the dew, no silver wing; 
The lyre-bird doth the April bow enfold, 

Yet in despite its beauty cannot sing — 
But the painting of a song which we behold 

Limned on the bloomy spray of azure Spring : — 
Only in maidens doth the kinship dwell — 

Both wondrous beauty and the voice of Philo- 
mel. 

XI. 

So thought the listening Prince, and deemed her 
fair 
Who sate in twilight and sung up the dusk, 
The dewy dusk, when on the blinded air. 
As fleeting as the trodden violet's musk. 
All splendid dyes dissolve which flowers wear, 

Leaving bright buds as dull as winter's husk; 
But woman's beauty, glowing through the night, 
Fades not at shut of eve when fade the flowers of 
light. 

XII. 

Within the dusk of hanging walls she sate 

Singing a ditty of delicious glee. 
But soon the silver moon at twilight's gate 

Shot lustre through its cloudy canopy — 



And Other Poems. 143 

As though a star should suddenly dilate 
Into bright Phoebe o'er a silver sea, 
Sweet Florence glowed upon the Prince's soul. 
And Love, like x\idenn's rose, sprung into perfect 
whole ! 



XIII. 

The silver moon looked in her happy eyes — 
Back to her lustrous hair a glory came 

Like morn of Italy when perfect skies 

With amber burn^ and rose and golden flame; 

Imbued with rose-bloom and hyacinth ine dyes 
The virgin snows returned to her fair frame:— 

The silver moon looked in her happy eyes 

Kindling her face and breast with light from Par- 
adise. 

XIV. 

"She is a spirit, and the night is charmed; 

Look not upon this Dian, or ye die V 
"She is a spirit, yet be not alarmed — 

Whom Dian slays hath life by her fair eye!" 
But 'gainst their argument the Prince was armed 

And answered on the burthen of a sigh : 
"Ah, she is human with her length of hair! 
Ah, she is human with her virgin bosom bare !" 



144 lone, 



XV. 

'^She is a spirit and a woman too- 

A nymph to sing, a maiden fond to glow ! 

But haste, sweet Prince, and bid the night adieu 
From off thy starry battlements, for lo ! 

The sun is brighter on Atlanta blue 

Than on yon Mediterranean's lulled flow: 

And look, my gentle Prince, the silver moon 

Hath veiled its glimpses sweet in dim and cloudy 
swoon." 

XVI. 

"Thou counsel'st well, my Lord; lead on to rest: 
'Twere rude to linger here with laggard feet." 

And, turning from the gate, the Prince addrest 
Himself and consort to the castle seat. 

Sweet Florence lingered like a parting guest 
In the dim twilight of her hushed retreat. 

Then smiled a virgin at her garden gate 

But blushed a Princess in the secret glass of Fate ! 

XVII. 

''Love, like the rose, may blossom by the throne 
And princes wear it on coronation day: 

Love, like the rose, by cottage gates hath blown, 
And like the fragrant rose on bloomy spray 



And Other Poems. 145 

Hath been transplanted to the sculptured stone 
Where kings have sate and ruled with gentle 
sway; 
To love, alike as to the summer rose, 
Enough is morning dew and light that comes and 
goes. 

XVIII. 

"Upon the forelock of the warrior's steed 
Love rides invisible and guides the rein: 

Within the hollow of the minstrel's reed 
Love shapes to ecstacy the tender strain: 

Upon Love's honey dew the poets feed. 
Till life is but an echo and refrain 

Of silver music to the west-wind sung, 

Of song and verse composed the pleasant hills 
among." 

XIX. 

Thus eloquently, touched by lyric fire. 

The Prince soliloquized in pleasant grove ; 

And in the stilly night he waked the lyre 

Of passion, while bright Venus shone above, 

"^sor left one -trlng un jarred. The golden wire 
Shook with the full diapason of a new love !— 

lie seemed compact of music and sweet fire, 

With lids that did not wear}^, hands that did not 
tire. 



146 lone, 

XX. 

'^Come o'er Rome's seven pleasant hills, Morn, 
And look upon the waters lulled in sleep ! 

Come through the silver moon's inverted horn 
And hang thy herald in the azure deep ! 

Come with thy forehead bright and locks unshorn 
And light the temples dim upon the steep! 

Come thou, golden Morn, and plant the throne 

Where Day shall sit in beauty when sable Night 
hath flown ! 

XXI. 

"Come up the pleasant vales, rosy Mom, 
Thy sure foot planted in the silver dew, 

And from the eglantine and white hawthorn 
Loose thy caged larks to sing in heaven blue ! 

Come to the stately lilies that adorn 

The hills of twilight, bidding Night adieu ! 

Come thou, rosy Mom, and ope the gate 

That leadeth to those gardens where my Soul doth 
wait! 

XXII. 

"Come from the champak to the rose, Morn, 
From India's plain to vales of Italy! 

Come from the silver palm to white hawthorn, 
From banks of poppy to banks ol narcissi ! 



And Other Poems. 147 

Come with thy dewj^ fingers and adorn 

The gardens of Tiber, and thou shalt be to me 
A brighter morn than ever yet hath sprung 
In Tempe, or the purple peaks of song among! 



XXIII. 

"Lo, like a cherub standing in the sun 

In the full splendor of his wings unshorn. 
Love shines upon me to Love's rituals won! — 
And welcome, ah thrice welcome, thou bright 
Morn 
Whose light shall lead me, ere thy sands are run, 
Down all the pleasant fields to that sweet 
bourn 
Where sate the maiden, bright above compare. 
With Hero's length of tress and Hero's bosom 
bare!'' 

XXIV. 

Thus passioned from his starry battlement 
The enamoured Prince, and eyes of lovers still 

Best herald the dawn .... With mom sweet 
Florence bent 
Her happy footsteps through that gate at will 



148 lone, 

Which downward led to gardens sweet with scent 

And splendid with bright buds as Fancy's hill, 

Where Florence spent, shut from all envious view, 

A youth untroubled, sweet, and born each morn 

anew. 



XXV. 

A little while she lingered by the fount 

That tempted thrice the new-fledged lark to 
soar, 
As higher and still higher it did mount, 

And wetted flowers bowed them to adore: 
A little while she lingered by the fount 

That tempted thrice the new-fledged lark to 
soar, 
Then 'gan she to tremble like a rose awaked 
By Zephyr, and her heart with sudden passion 
ached. 



XXVI. 

Some say the lily trembles 'gainst that hour 
A lover^s hand shall ravish it away: 

Some say the roses feel the coming shower 
Though heaven still is blue and no clouds stray; 



And Other Poems. 149 

Perliaps 'twas no with Florence as with the flower 

Of purity, or rose on leafy spray, — 
Perhaps like these slie felt a sweet approach 
And shook like asphodels when lover's hands en- 
croach. 



XXYII. 

Perhaps a Presence went before the youth 
That Love was leading to the garden gate 

And shook the Eose of Tiber. Ay, in sooth, 
'Tis sweet to fable that love did agitate 

Her maiden bosom, and not passing mth: 
Nor shall I question this, nor make debate, — 

'No poet questions beauty but to find 

A greater beauty, and no greater is behind. 

XXVIII. 

Then, as a gust of summer faints and dies 
And troubled waters take their native calm, 

The passion passed from Florence, and her eyes — 
As dark as twilight 'neath a budded palm — 

Resumed their converse with the morning skies, 
That newly to her heart brought peace and balm, 

Her lips grew tender, and she 'gan to sing 

A ditty light as air^ wed to one silver string. 



150 lone, 

XXIX. 

Stor'n to the sculptured gate — the garden's seal — 
^Neatli shade of purple flowers, such as twine 

The pulses of the wandering winds and feel 
The heart of Summer through them heat divine, 

The Prince, unseen, a little while did kneel 
Like palmer at the foot of holy shrine. 

Then, rising up, looked full on Florence there 

And craved a cup of water as her utmost care. 

XXX. 

By noble and ingenuous youth the dew 

Of courtesy is never strained, and with a cup 

Of water asked youth gives its friendship too. 
So deemed the ardent Nobleman, and up 

The garden path came Florence and withdrew 
The single severing bolt that he might sup 

The waters of the fountain, as he sued: — 

A youth right noble, sooth, and with all grace 
imbued ! 

XXXI. 

He entered in ! N"o bright imperial crown 

Shot golden lustre through the crown of youth 

Encircling his fair forehead. One whom Eenown 
Had touched but lightly yet had touched for 
truth, 



And Other Poems. 151 

For truth and chivalry, he seemed; and down 
The garden path, right courteously in sooth, 
Fair Florence led him onward, undismayed, 
To where the fountain rose and cast a pleasant 
shade. 



XXXII. 

Deep drank the Prince. "Does Tiber taste so 
sweet ? 

Is Tiber, then, so delicate at's head? 
Ah, blessed Tiber !" '' 'Tis thy journey's heat 
Hath made it delicate/' fair Florence said. 
"A charmed fountain and a charmed retreat !" 

The Prince responded then : "And may I tread 
This pleasant path, and rest a wanderer's eye 
Upon the rose that springs a home and haven by ?" 



XXXIII. 

Ah, wherefore did fair Florence turn away? 

Ah, wherefore did she tremble like a star? 
Was it with anger that he chose to stay 

And with rude presence on her spirit jar? 
Ah, no, not anger, for from bloomy spray 

She plucked the fragrant rose he praised afar. 



152 lonfi;, 

And begged him. keep it till the Tiber drew 
Him unto greener fields where sweeter flowers 
blew. 

XXXIV. 

"Sweet to the wanderer is the rose/' he said, 
"That springs with light upon it from the home ; 

Upon its leaves a brighter dew is shed 

Than falleth ever on fields wherethrough we 
roam! 

Yet not with wandering spirit am I led 

To journey o'er the fields and spumy foam, 

I seek a blessed shrine but newly found 

Where once a Seraph stood, and now 'tis holy 
ground." 

XXXV. 

"Farewell!" sweet Florence said, and then it 
seemed 
She had waked a chord she did not mean to 
wake, 
An impassioned chord of which she had not 
dreamed 
That shook her heart and made her being ache. 
"Adieu !" the Prince replied : "I had not deemed 
The morn so high in heaven ; yet ere I take 



And Other Poems. 153 

My leave of Tiber thrice this way I ride — 
Though not to rest again by this cool fountain's 
side." 



XXXVI. 

A question 'twas within whose answer sweet 
A wiser maid had crowded all her heart, 

But Florence guessed not that he did entreat 
A triple audience ere they should part; 

Yet ignorance in her worked no defeat 

Nor made the Prince with trepidation start. 

For courteously she welcomed him to rest 

Though from the east he came or from the dewy 
west. 



XXXVIL 

Ah, brief their meeting, swift their parting fond. 

As transitory as a morning dream. 
Yet Love found time to knit the subtle bond 

That bound their spirits to a single scheme! 
Home from the fountain starred like diamond 

Eetumed the gentle Prince in sweet e:xtreme. 
Communing with his spirit as he went, 
For love, though no ear li?tens_, waketh eloquent. 



154 lone, 



XXXVIII. 

While for sweet Florence by the gate apart — 
A dawning in her tender eye and glad — 

She first knew love, and to her happy heart 
The morning rose another meaning had ! 

Immortal love she knew and love's best art. 
Which virtue is in sweet simplicity clad : 

Then 'gan she to sing and through her singing 
ached 

A chord untouched before, a string but newly 
waked. 



PART 11. 
I. 

Now on their love, alike as on the rose. 
Another morn hath risen. At the gate 

The Prince again did crave the sweet repose 
And waters o' the garden, cool and delicate ; 

Again fair Florence by the fount uprose 
And loost the bolt and welcomed him elate : 

Again they bade adieu and turned away 

He to his harp addrest, she to the rose of May. 



And Other Poems. 155 

II. 

Then twice the golden sun rose on their love 
To set upon their parting dim and sweet. 

Ah, twice the fading sun brought home the dove, 
And either stayed though neither did entreat; 

Then twice the tender gloaming from above 
Came down and trembled ^round their happy 
feet — 

A book by sunlight and a harp by dusk 

Held them together till the glow-worm breathed 
the musk. 

III. 

Then came the seventh day, the perfect day, 
Such as in June the poets search and sing; 

It came unto the rose on bloomy spray, 
Then to the risen lark with dewy wing ; 

Then to fair Florence came with golden ray 
And lingered in her hair. It was in Spring, 

One echo slept upon an hundred hills — 

The song of Philomel among the morning rills. 

IV. 

It came, and found the lovers with a book, 
A book of verse beneath the lilac tree, 

Rare verse of May, of dale and sunny nook, 
Of hedges sweet with lind, where sucked the 
bee; 



156 lone, 

Of thyme-linked glimpses of the running broolc^ 

Of purple bloom and dews of Arcady : 
And love was there, and grew from bud to leaf. 
From bud to leaf it grew into the perfect sheaf. 



"0, Florence, Florence, by his cunning art 

This bard hath stolen — so rarely doth he sing — 

Light from thine eyes and sweetness from thy 
heart 
And builded up a dream of love and Spring ! 

Ah, Florence, Florence, these shall never part, 
Linked by the golden rhyme the bard doth 
bring. 

And thou and I forevermore shall be 

Like these two lovers joined for aye in poetry!" 

VI. 

"This be my story then," the answer came: 
"Into thy keeping here I give my heart : 

Thou taught me love ere others taught its name — • 
Farewell, sweet garden, thou and I must part !" 

"0 may confusion seize me and hot shame 
If ever, Love, my love should wing this dart I 

Look up, bright Florence, here thou still may'st 
dwell, 

These hanging walls thou lovest shall echo not 
^farewell !' 



And Other Poems. 157 



VII. 

^^My state is noble, noble is ni}^ race, 

And here beside these pleasant walls, sweet one, 

I'll build thee a palace home." But in the face 
Of Florence was a light not in the sun, 

But something that is born of human grace. 
Of finer substance than the day is spun : 

"Ah, no," she softly said, "that must not be; 

This garden w^ere a love to steal my love from 
thee." 

VIII. 

"N'ay, gentle heart, the bird of sweetest lay. 

The leafiest tree, tho brightest flower that blows 
Within these gardens, decked by darling May, 

Shall be transplanted where thy sweet self goes, 
And thou shalt parted be ah scarce a day; 
Then come, dear heart, and bid the fragrant 
rose 
Beside thy father^s door a long farewell, 
I have a distant home where thou and T shall 
dwell." 

IX. 

"0 may I dream the early dream to-night 
Which knows no sad ^farewell !' Abide till mom. 

Then, questionless, I'll act this heavy rite 
x\nd bid farewell to flower and to thorn. 



158 lone, 

But, lo ! when morning comes with golden light 
And far away I hear the huntsman's horn, 
Ah, tell me, Love, where wilt thou lead my feet — 
Hast thou a home for me, a pleasant garden seat?'' 



X. 



'^0, Love, I ne'er had stol'n away thy heart 

Without some haven for thy weary feet ! 
Believe my passion is the better part 

Integrity and honor; and I entreat 
Thee not to question me in any sort — 

To make the rare more rare, the sweet more 
sweet, 
I've veiled from thee — thy pardon set me right — 
From whence I come at morn and whither go at 
night. 

XL 

'^Yet know, and let it he thy surety, 
Within my father's halls there is no stone 

But once hath echoed without disloyalty 

Thy father's name; and now it shall be shown 

How dear he was, whose name shall ever be 
A silver echo given by the throne 

Back to the lips of Honor without blame, 

Of Eome, for Rome, and unto Eome, an immortal 
name! 



And Other Poems. 159 



XII. 

"0, then, leave not my grace at question, Dear, 
But think that where thy father's name hath 
been 

And lingers as great music on the ear 
His daughter happily may enter in. 

Without the shadow of a doubt or fear, 
And dwell in honor as befits his kin. 

trust me, I've a home within the North, 

The rose is at its gate and myrrh upon its hearth." 

XIII. 

"There is a tomb beside the sounding sea 

They taught me to call 'father,' " Florence said : 

"Alas, he never lived to christen me ! 
The painting of a mother by my bed 

They taught me to call 'mother,' and to be 
A daughter to, — the gentlest of the dead. 

Yet I am happy. Love, for thou art near, 

And when thou goest hence thou leadest me from 
here." 

XIV. 

And then the twilight came with gentle hand 
And parted these two lovers side by side: 

Home went the Prince with tender heart and 
bland. 
And Florence to her reit with maiden pride. 



i6o lone, 

After, the moon came down upon that land 

Of gardens, wherethrough crystal waters glide, 
And Philomel saw that the night was fine 
And sung across the derws a hymn of love divine. 



XV. 



Then paled the stars before the bridal morn 
That rose from seas ^Egean without stain, 

And from lush covert of untrodden thorn 
The lark uprose, and sweeter was his strain 

Than that of fabled birds such as adorn 
Apollo^s tree, and poets love to feign. 

But, ah, it was not day, not perfect day. 

Until the Bride arose and stood mid dewy spray! 

XVI. 

Mid dewy spray she stood at sweet repose, 
Adorned by nature with so much of fair 

That poetry shall only add a rose 

And with a sapphire pin it in her hair. 

Mid spray of hyacinth at sweet repose 

Fair Florence stood, and charmed the list'ning 
air 

With those sweet bursts that rather seem to be 

The language of a heart than scheme of harmony. 



And Other Poems. i6i 

XVII. 

But soon her singing ceased, for at the gate 
A stranger stood, and in the Prince's name 

Craved gently that he need no longer wait 
But enter in and speak wherefore he came. 

He bore the countenance of royal state, 

A throne's reflected light and golden flame; 

And courteously he crost the garden's marge 

And knelt at Florence's feet and spoke his honored 
charge. 

XVIII. 

"Fair lady, from thy sovereign Prince I come — 
The Throne in one mind with its royal Heir — 

To publish in this garden that thy sum 

Of grace and beauty, and a name most rare. 

Have moved the bravest Prince in Christendom 
To choose thee Consort to his state and share 

His present honors and prophetic reign, 

The grandeur of his throne and grace that doth 
sustain. 

XIX. 

"Thou art a Princess, chosen from beyond 
The royal line but not the royal grace: 

x\nd art thrice blest in cherishing this bond — 
Blessing thyself, the Prince, and populace! 



i62 lone, 

But, lo ! with pageantries that correspond 

With his great intent, to this pleasant place 
The Prince with all his train is now addrest: 
Throw wide thy heart and entertain the royal 
guest !" 

XX. 

Was it with woman's longings for royalty 

That Florence's brow grew pale and cold as 
death? 
Was it the thin air of high sovereignty 

Oppressed her heart and stole away her breath? 

Ah, no, not these — though these it well might be — 

Paled her fair brow and stole away her breath : 

'Twas that she never dreamed the Prince her 

Love, 
And now had come divorce she could not rise 
above. 

XXL 

Or so it seemed; for should the Prince decree 
Her as the Consort of his royal state 

Her marriage with another conld not be, 

And knowing this she thought she knew her 
fate. 

**'Alas!" she said, "I'm chosen for misery; 
AVaiting for gentle love I do but wait 

For rude divorce: and in Love's name they post 

Who steal away my Love and widow me almost ! 



And Other Poems. 163 

XXII. 

*^0, thou sweet garden, unto thee I turn. 
Then comfort me in sorrow, or I faint. 

Ah, thou wast ever gentle, nor wilt spurn 
Me in the heaviness of rude complaint: 

My hopes are ashes, never more to burn 
With colors warmer than the poets paint ! 

0, teach me, is it thus in human fate 

That lovers' hearts must break in Spring when 
sweet birds mate? 

XXIIL 

"A Princess and prophetic Queen to be! 

then shall grief and wrong be lifted high, 
And, hooped by golden bands of royalty. 

This heart must break — while Grandeur stand- 
eth by ! 
0, Love, hear my complaint and haste to me. 

And thou and I from Italy shall fly 
Tn the sweet-bitter steps of frightened Love 
To where our hearts are whole though skies be 
rent above !" 

XXIV. 

Then Florence wept ! But in this lyric song 
Thexe are no tears but that are wiped away : 

All swift affliction and all seeming wrong 
Which she shall ever know is but a wa^ 



164 lone, 

To make the sweet more sweet, as shadows throng 

The forehead of the morning and the day 
Seems brighter and more welcome after shade, 
More golden on the hill, more tender in the glade. 

XXV. 

Then on her ear sweet music rose and fell 
And down she knelt as for a sacrifice ; 

But nature in the gentlest dare rebel 

'Gainst power that would blind Love's tender 
eyes 

And him into the thongs of bondage sell, 

Barred from the golden warmth of freedom's 
skies : 

So Florence rose, unconquered it would seem. 

Save but her vesper eyes down bent as in a dream. 

XXVI. 

Meanwhile the eager Prince had stayed his train 
Hard by the garden walls, and through the 
gate 

Alone he came. Fair Florence with sharp pain 
Felt that approach which needs must agitate 

Her tender bosom, and a moment drain 
Heaven of balm and youth of joy innate. — 

That golden light that shines from Providence 

Has passed into eclipse and all is now suspense! 



And Other Poems. 165 



XXVII. 

"Fair lady/' thus the Prince, '^^a courtier 

Hath been before and herald' my approach: 

His chosen words no doubt did minister 

To honor more than love, yet my reproach 

Shall nothing injure, for what reverend sir, 
In Love's uneasy livery set abroach. 

Can put to fitting words a young man's heart, 

Paint what he feels not, what he doth not dream, 
impart ? 

XXVIII. 

"I am thy Prince, and thou shalt be my bride : 
'Tis so decreed and that decree shall stand. 

Thy spirit hath been ever by my side 

And now, indeed, I take thy corporal hand. 

This kiss be at my judgment to betide 
Me weal or woe as to its faith I stand — 

Thy royal husband and thy loyal love. 

As constant to thine eyes as fate to stars above !" 

XXIX. 

Then down fair Florence knelt, and at his feet 
Poured out in supplication her sad heart. 

The Prince, confounded, heard his Love entreat, 
And saw the actor, yet guessed not the part, 



i66 lone, 

But soon her ple.ading ceased, so bitter-sweet. 
So far from forethought yet so near to art, 
And looking down upon her sunny hair 
The Prince in sorrow found the source of her de- 
spair. 

XXX. 

"0 good, my Lord, thou hast not seen behind 
This high decree, or else thy lips had stayed 

To bless it with approval. Thou dost bind 
An innocent love in constancy arrayed 

And set a sorrow free ! 0, most unkind 
That, guiltless, I am guiltlessly betrayed. 

sad, my Lord, the sun hath stooped to bless. 
But, blessing, hath consumed me in my lowliness ! 

XXXL 

"My love is to my fortune as a vine 

That climbs no higher than that cottage eave 

Whereneath ^tis planted, for this love of mine 
Hath climbed no higher than my state gives 
leave. 

1 looked unto that kingly throne of thine 
But to obey, my Lord, not to receive; 

Elsewhere I looked for love, elsewhere 'twas found, 
Nor sprung so high as thine yet sprung from holy 
ground. 



And Other Poems. 167 

XXXII. 

"I love a youth, a noble youth, my Lord, 

Who, with the morning, greets me at the gate. 

And here upon this green and pleasant sward 
We linger till the twilight doth abate 

Light on the pages of that gentle bard 
Who found love sweet and found it adequate; 

And good, my Lord, thou canst not surely mean 

To blast that love which flowered ere thv love was 



green !^ 



XXXIII. 



"0, Florence, Florence, hast thou been deceived 
So far beyond the period of intent? 

Hath expectation failed, and art thou grieved 
By circumstances in all kindness meant? 

Dear heart, hast thou some threat'ning gloom per- 
ceived 
In heaven, where Love's golden bow was bent? 

then kneel not amid the weeping dew, — 

1 am thy royal Prince and, sweet, thy lover too !^' 

XXXIV. 

Drawn up by these strange accents to her feet, 
She opened wide her veiled, affrayed eye: 

The wonder of it all was near complete, 
And ignorance was taking wings to fly 



1 68 lone, 

Then sudden to .her neck and forehead sweet 

The warm blood mantled like a painful d3^e, 
And darkling for the well of speech she groped, 
Saying, "Art thou a prince indeed — past what 
I hoped ! 

XXXV. 

"0, pardon me, my Lord, I knew it not. 
And in my ignorance I was not bold; 

But now I see my love is overshot 

Beyond my fortune — and — the tale is told \" 

"Sweet Love,'^ the Prince replied, "there is no 
blot 
But love may better wear than lust for gold ; — 

Thy veins are noble and thy heart is great, 

And thou shalt be the Consort of my royal state. 

XXXVI. 

"Nay, lead thy doubts aside to perish, sweet. 
And follow faith imto its perfect goal: 

I saw this hour coming, nor defeat 

Was in its train, but victory and whole. 

entertain me, now our love's complete, 
Both with a lifted eye and perfect soul: 

Or say, bright Florence, wilt thou bid farewell 

To these sweet flowers that blow where thou no 
more shalt dwell?" 



And Other Poems. 169 



XXXVII. 

"It is my Avish," sho s^id, "m}^ dearest bent; 

And as a Princess I command at will !'^ 
Then through the garden hand in hand they went, 

While music rose and fell to soothe or thrill. — 
The flowers throng their steps with fragrant scent, 

And as these lovers by the gate stand still 
And bid the ros^e farewell on leafy spray, 
Bid them adieu and let the music die away. 



i7c lone, 



KEATS. 



He was the darling of blue Olympus, 

The loveliest of them all; 
And the way of his youth was Beauty's way 

And never shall weary or pall. 

He hung a silver moon in the heavens, 
And that moon shall never fade; 

But lovers shall look on its face forever. 
As bright as when Madeleine prayed 

He fled with Philomel into the wood 
Where numberless shadows throng, 

And into that wood half the world hath stolen 
And listened to Philomel's song. 

He bathed the leasoni in myitic light — 
I oan see that light on th« hill! 

An hundred years his eyes are closed 
But the world looks through them still. 



And Other Poems. 171 

Death shall lie down with the fairest of earth 

But not with the fairest of his, 
For the lovely daughters of his mind 

Each one immortal is. 

Greece is dearer for his dear "Urn/' 

And Italy bluer for him; 
And Arcady is nearer to us 

Because of his lovely hymn. 

The only nightingale thousands have heard 

He loosed from his tranced heart, 
In sweet embalmed darkness to sing — 

To sing, and never depart. 

His music hath passed into Beauty's face, 

Her smile is one with his hymn: 
And if there's a thought in the heart of the rose 

^Tis a thought of him. 



172 lone, 



ISABEL. 



'Tis midnight, and a sj^irit in my feet, 

Past many an upland lawn by Eros prest, 
Eastward hath led me to where the violets sweet 

Yet bear the impress of her twilight rest. 
Here, where throngh flowers dim and fragrant- 
eyed 
The wanderiug airs of heaven breathe and die, 
On pleasant sward, at shut of goldem eve, 
She knelt within my arms, a promised bride ; 
The twilight lingering in her azure eye, 

The night upon the curls that 'round her 
forehead cleave. 



II. 



The wild bee sleeps in star light with the rose, 
The dews are blown abroad, the silver moon, 

Making night beautiful^ comes down and glows 
Upon the waters from her queenly noon. 



And Other Poems. 173 

The mocking-bird hath caught a lyric note 
That fell from heaven with the twilight dim, 
And all the night hath stayed awake with 
song — 
Like some rapt poet wandering remote, 
And shaping with his lips a golden hymn 
From voices that around his haunted spirit 
throng. 

III. 

Where broods bright Hesper o'er yon silver steep 

And Summer lays her flowered mantle by, 
My Lady sleeps a golden- visioned sleep, 

Soft-fanned by airs that climb the azure sky. 
Exhaling fragrance from each pearled brim 

Beneath her casement sweet buds faintly gleam. 
Such as in Arcady first sprung and blew; 
The rose looks upward to her lattice dim 

Upon the sloping lawn the tranced night 
through, 
And lends a perfume to the rose within her 
dream. 

IV. 

Her youth lies open to the golden light 
And moves through beauty like a mountain 
brook ; 

Her heart is tender as a summer night, 

And twilight meets the morning in her look. 



174 lone, 

The mocking-bird is singing up the dawn, 
And sweeter birds shall sing the morning in, 
But not the risen lark sings sweet as she 
Climbing the steep blue o'er a poet's lawn, 
Nor Philomel, to songs unsung akin. 
Singing from dewy thyme in olden poesy. 



V. 



As shakes a new-blown rose in Summer's front 
Before the winds that breathe from meadows 
wide, 
Here where the air is cool with swaying fount 

My Isabel became my promised bride. 
With something of that early proud repose 
And something of that late and sweet unrest, 
She knelt within my arms with meek embrace ; 
Her blush down-mantling to the fragrant rose 
J'hat shook its conscious dews upon her breast, 
GSer eyes, half veiled with love, upturned unto 
my face. 

VI. 

for the wand of Morpheus to fill 
Her dreams with visions that arise in me,— 

To visit her in balmy sleep at will 
And shake her heart with this deep ecstasy ! 



And Other Poems. 175 

for an hour to be old Somnus' heir 

And guide athwart yon azure fields of light 
The winged and viewless chariot of dreams ! 
So should I hang the dim and spacious air 
Wherein she moves in dreams of summer night 
Even with yon bright star that on my fore- 
head streams. 

VIl. 

Yea, seat her on this pleasant hill in dreams 

And cool her hands in flowers dim and sweet, 
Within her ears the sound of falling streams, 

The wandering airs of heaven 'round her feet. 
Nor should my voice be hushed until the dawn, 
But sometimes, falling through the verdurous 
gloom. 
Come o'er her list'ning ear as sweet and far 
As spirit calling unto spirit; anon 

Risd at her feet from dewy hawthorn bloom : — 
Yet I should not be found beneath the even- 
ing star. 

VIII. 

Aye troubled in her dreams she would awake, 
Awake, arise, and come into the night ; 

Come out into the night for love's sweet sake 
And seek me by yon heaven's tender light. 



176 lone, 

Like some bright flower borne unto my feet 
Upon the waters of a running stream, 

Troubled, but not o'ercome, past brook and 
fall, 
Past pools where Phoebe dreams, through mead- 
ows sweet, 
O'er dewy lawn, in shade and blended beam, 
My Bride would come to me, and love be all 
in all ! 

IX. 

Ay me ! some sweetness is too sweet for dreams, 

Some buds too bright to ope on fancy's air. 
Some stars too golden for the night which streams 

Around the dreamer — bright above compare! 
Ye stars of summer night, this may not be ! 
Enough to touch her band at break of dawn, 
Enongh our lips shall meet at dewy dusk; — 
Too sweet, too rare, too wrought with ecstasy, 
To calm my Love at midnight, all forlorn, 
And take her to my heart, soft-fanned by the 
blown musk. 

X. 

The lake has lit the mocking-bird to rest. 

Midst purple spray and ever-flowering green. 

The bright, soft-pacing moon hath newly drest 
The falls be^'ond the wood in silver sheen ! 



And Other Poems. 177 

One star hath lit me to this pleasant seat, 
Streaming upon my path with rosy light, — 
One star shall light me down unto my rest ; 
One light is on my dreams, one 'round her feet, — 
Yon star of Love hung pendulous in night. 
Shaking its golden splendors from the stead- 
fast West ! 



PUT MONEY IN YOUH PURSE. 

Money, however got, is money still. 

The greatest thing that serves the human will ; 

Earned, found or stolen, borrowed, begged as well, 

'T will move all spirits and all men compel. 

Get money, then, and get it as you may. 

For everything is his who has the means to pa}-. 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
In health 't will feed you and in sickness nurse: 
Affection wearies; love grows weak and cold, 
Not so that blessed angel — yelJow gold ! 
Fame! Glory! all the bright, immortal host 
Cannot attempt what gold does lightly boast; 
Lo ! Genius cannot ease one labored breath 
But money oft can stay the hand of death: 
The tongue of Burke shall parch with fever's 

heat 
While Midas cools his throat with vintage rare 

and sweet! 



178 lone, 

Go to, I say; .put money m your purse; 
'T will ease, if not subdue, the primal curse; 
For death itself is easier for gold 
Which keeps out summei*^s heat and winter's cold. 
Get money, then, and get it as you may. 
For everything is his who has the means to pay. 

The poor may neither choose nor have their 
fill. 
The rich choose freely, freely where they will; 
The poor are food for famine and for wars. 
For cold and pestilence; they bear the scars 
Of yesterday, and fear to-morrow's wound. 
And, dead, are oft interred in potter's ground: 
The rich are guarded like a sacrament 
Up from the cradle till their breath is spent. 
Then, borne in splendor from their castle walls. 
E'en as they lived they sleep in marble halls. 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
This is the wisdom of all prose and verse, 
The wisest maxim that was ever told, 
The truth that grows in youth while other truths 

grow old. 
Whoever has a dollar has a part 
Of what is nearest to his neighbor's heart, 
And, having that, his neighbor is his friend. 
Or, if his enemy, himself he can defend. 
Whoever have a dollar more than you 
Holds in their hands your liberty, to do 



And Other Poems. 179 

According with it freely as they please — 
Or lift you to a throne or bring you to your 
knees. 

You have a daughter: look unto your purse. 
Its emptiness shall prove that daughter's curse ^ 
She shall be tempted for her daily bread 
And set her honor Against starvation's dread. 
You have a son with genius in his brain; 
The rich shall prostitute it for their gain; 
His spirit shall put on a livery 
And lackey to the golden powers that be. 

Play fast and loose with every law of love 
But guard your purse like treasures from above: 
Who worship now the gods that Caesar had? 
But Caesar's gold will keep you warmly clad. 
Thus pass the great divinities of old 
And teach us there is nothing true but gold. 

Go to, get gold ; behold ! on Sinai's mount 
Was never given truth of such account! 
Suppose you do not, then another will. 
Treading 3^ou down when you are poor and 

ill: 
What then shall honor, love and beauty be. 
And all religion, all philosophy? 
What then, when there is nothing in your purse 
And those dependent on you share that curse? 

Get money, and more money, and still more, 
As did the crafty who have gone before. 



i8o lone, 

And now their issue rule this ancient earth 
And live in wealth, in leisure and in miith. 
They neither steal nor beg from door to door, 
And, having much, give something to the poor; 
Their bodies are not warped with toil and sin. 
An insult to the spirit hedged within; 
And they alone are free to come and go, 
With opportunity to see, leisure to know. 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
Wealth has no stings but poverty has worse. 
Wine ! Women ! Song ! V^ould you partake of these ? 
Who have the money choose where'er they please. 
Travels and leisure ! Do these suit your mind ? 
Then money is your friend and more than kind. 
A palace with attendants at each door ! 
How often fall such wonders to the poor? 
A yacht in summer and blue skies in winter time ! 
Your gold will get them though itself be got by 
crime ! 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
'No man does better, thousands daily worse: 
Though money may not bring you happiness 
Its lack will ever bring you dire distress. 

You have religion ! Will it keep you warm. 
Or thrust aside necessity's stem arm? 
What use or value is your little creed 
At which ten thousand mock, for which scarce one 
will bleed? 



And Other Poems. i8i 

Think you tliat your religion is the truth? 
Nay, so the Roman thought as much, forsooth; 
He was as certain that his faith v;as right 
As you are certain of your creed to-night: 
He worshipped Jove, another god have you; 
To still a third, perchance, your son will sue. 
Then be not eager to deceive yourself 
And for an uncertain god lose certain pelf. 

Perchance you labor for a deathless fame, 
The glory of a bright, immortal name! 
All wealth that Caesar in his life possest 
Bright gold will purchase, making you as blest; 
And, Cgesar dead, what comfort can he find 
In that immortal name he left behind? 
The dead in their own glory have no part ; 
Fame cannot stir a clod though once a human 

heart ! 
Nay, when indeed you have paid nature's claim 
Though honor crown your grave you shall not 

know 't from shame ! 
Get money; nor in getting be too nice. 
For yellow gold is cheap at any price: 
'T will buy you friendship and 't v/ill find you 

love. 
And serve you freer than the gods above. 
'T were better that your children wish you 

killed 
That they possess your money-bags, well-filled. 



1 82 lone, 

Than that your children wish 3'ou dead and gone 
Since you have nothing left to live upon. 

'T is money that 's respected, not the man ; 
'T is money that 's the soul of every plan! 
All under heaven, be it what it may. 
Love, virtue, honor, meets bright gold half- 
way: 
Whenever virtue does refuse to yield 
And honor will not cast aside his shield, 
'T is not they are impenetrable stuff 
But only that your price is not enough: 
Hold forth a little more, and each will come 
And yield his crown up for that larger sum ! 
Get money, then; all hell cannot delay 
The march of money, nor all heaven stay! 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
'T will heighten every pleasure, lighten every 

curse. 
Wealth's counterfeit is more than virtue's self. 
An angel's presence less than shadows cast by 

pelf. 
Who steals your purse has stolen all your wealth, 
Your liberty, your comfort, and your health; 
Your honor, too, for how shall that remain 
When hunger fills your body with sharp pain? 
Who steals your money steals your daughter too. 
To do with her as money choose to do. 
Leaving you bound and helpless to pursue. 



And Other Poems. 18;^ 

Cease reading this and go abroad and see 
How sterner than its story is want's reality: 
Ehyme softens still the tale and meter part re- 
fines 
But poverty itself has no such pleasing lines; 
^T is hell, stern hell, unchastened, unrelieved; 
!N"o art has smoothed it and no poet sieved. 
Like beasts pursued, and crowding each on each, 
The poor are huddled close in Mammon's reach : 
If you have money go amidst them there 
And choose a mistress from the young and fair. 
Or choose the hardiest to be your slave. 
Make smooth your path in life, in death make 
smooth your grave. 
Go to, I say; put money in your purse. 
Or your own self shall bartered be, or worse. 
Bright gold a kingdom is, and he is chief 
Who has possession, though an arrant thief: 
The tongue of genius he can loose or bind 
And stay the thinker's pen and starve the 
thinker's mind. 
Where money ends there slavery begins. 
And hunger, and with hunger half our sins: 
And where your money ends leave off all hope — 
Those gates are shut upon you that gold alone 

can ope! 
Prate not of heaven^s help or virtue's arms 
The poor dwell in a city of alarms. 



184 lone, 

And, waiting for death to set their spirit free. 
They suffer all things, all injustice see: 
Their very virtues eke their patience out 
'And patience longer bears the scourge and knout. 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
"No matter how; for poverty is worse. 
Yes, poverty is worse a thousand fold 
Than the losing of your soul by the getting of 

your gold! 
Get money; money suffers no delays. 
And where there's gold there are a thousand ways. 

So many creeds, and nothing sure but gold; 
So many visions, and, when all are told. 
We find ourselves with nature as before — 
Well fed, if rich, but hungry if we're poor ! 
Religions rise and fall; great poets sing; 
Philosophies, like hidden waters, spring.; 
New customs die, the old are bom again; 
Sometimes the sword shall rule, sometimes the 

pen; 
Greece yesterday, America to-day. 
To-morrow, what ? Ah ! who can surely say ? 
But whether Shakespeare sings or Caesar reigns. 
Or Nero binds the slave or Lincoln rends his 

chains. 
Gold ever is the same life-shaping tool 
And, changing oft its name, has never changed 

its rule. 



And Other Poems. 185 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
There are no losses but 't will reimburse. 
Or, if there are ten thousand ten times o'er. 
Will they be less in number if you're poor? 
Nay, poverty will make the bad still worse. 
To every evil add a greater curse; 
There 's naught so sad but it will sadder make, 
Nor broken but that once again 't will break: 
It kills the little comfort that remains 
And hope, already thin, still thinner strains: 
The body sick, it sickens then the heart. 
And leaves the faint and hunted no resort: 
It adds a toil unto the widow's grief 
And of the merely hungry makes the damned 

thief: 
O'er simple failure throws a complex spell 
And digs a deeper pit in deepest hell ! 
Get money, then, and, having much, get more; 
'T is not enough alone not to be poor. 
Be also richer than your neighbor is 
Or what is yours right shortly shall be his. 

Get money; having got the smallest store 
You'll never need persuasion to get more: 
Faith, truth and beauty need the wisest laws. 
An angel's tongue to win us to their cause. 
But money, which none question, none deny. 
Speaks for itself and wins both heart and 
eye. 



1 86 lone, 

Your wants perhaps are simple and are few — 
Plain food to feed your body and renew. 
Three suits a year and every month a book. 
One day in seven by a running brook, 
A little leisure and a little song, 
A loving friend who does the heart no wrong, 
And naught, save thought, intense, and naught, 

save labor, long: 
But though your wants are simple and are few 
With other men this finding holds not true; 
Their wants are legion — who can comprehend 
Their multiplicity, or find their end? 
They tax all nature and exhaust all art, 
And in their satisfaction you must play a 

part. 
You shall be forced to labor Against your will 
With ax or loom, with shovel or with quill: 
^T is gold will set the task and hour, too. 
Wherein that labor must be done and through, 
And, being poor, you shall do certain things 
Nor 'scape that task though heaven lend you 

wings. 
'T is gold decides the labor and the man. 
Appoints the hour and designs the plan. 
Sets on its forces as it best agrees. 
Then stands hard by and sternly oversees. 
Get money, then, or else the rich will make 
A vassal of you for their passions' sake: . 



And Other Poems. 187 

Though homely fare contents you and invites, 
The rich have more capricious appetites: 
When your own toil has earned a simple dish 
Of lentil, fruit, or wheaten bread, or fish. 
And you are satisfied, then will the rich 
Stir you abroad to delve in sand and ditch. 
Scour all the plain and drag the viewless air. 
To load their tables with a richer fare. 
Nay, being poor, you shall be poorer still 
And serve the wealthy ere you have your fill; 
Plight fortunate if after they shall sup 
Enough remains to fill your plate and cup. 
Before the rich have risen from their bed 
You shall have sweated for your daily bread. 
And hours after they have gone to rest 
The burning sweat of toil shall fall upon your 

breast ! 
Go to, I say ; put money in your purse ; 
No matter how; the lack ^s the greater curse: 
He has indeed no friend who has no pelf 
And, having naught, he shall despise himself: 
The heart of him who can possess no gold 
Is like some wretched weed that we behold — 
Bitter while young and poisonous when old. 
Get money, then; possess it as you may; 
No matter how 't is gotten it will pay. 

The rich man's profit is the poor man's war, 
And^ being poor, you cannot fly so far 



i88 lone, 

But gold, that yellow loadstone none escape, 
Will draw you back again and all your actions 

shape. 
You shall be listed in the ranks of war 
To fix the bayonet, or guide the car. 
To meet the advancing, charge the retreating foe, 
Here ride upon, iron-shod, there overthrow; 
O'errun the greatest length of bloody ground, 
Slay where you can, and where you cannot, wound ; 
Eetreat a cripple, or perish in a ditch. 
And all for Home — for Country — and the Eich ! 
Get money, then; with money you can buy 
A substitute to strike for you — and die! 
Get money, and more money, and still more. 
And take your leisure ^long a pleasant shore, 
Nor die a soldier in a foreign bog, 
i^or sweat your face away to keep afHother's dog. 
Put by your music and your brush and pen 
And follow in the steps of moneyed men: 
You are just so much poorer for your verse. 
And, painting beauty, you but paint — a hearse ! 
Go to, I say; put by these little tools; 
They're but the playthings of we easy fools. 
They serve nor devil, angel, God, nor man. 
And though of nature not in nature's plan. 
Get out; get gold: write verses on a bill. 
Those verses shall be scanned on Zion's highest 

hill. 



And Other Poems. '189 

Go to, I say ; put money in your purse. 
And, having more than others, fear no curse. 
Not guiltless, murdered blood can cry so loud 
Erom haunted sepulcher or damned shroud 
But money's music can subdue that cry 
And buy out justice though it fall from yonder 

sky! 
Get money, then ; and money can be had 
Ten thousand ways, and not one way is bad: 
Earned, found, or stolen from your neighbor's till. 
Possessed by rapine or by labor's skill, 
Eobbed from the needy, from the wealthy tricked, 
By usury got, or from a gutter picked. 
An almighty dollar is a dollar still. 
The greatest thing that serves the human will. 

Some people say, and moralists acquiesce. 
That riches cannot bring us happiness 
While all about us thousands suffer dire distress; 
The sight of others mourning, so they say. 
Will take our appetite for joy away. 
But we know better, we who look around 
And are not cheated by an empty sound: 
Do we not daily in this world of ours 
Behold the wealthy look from hall and towers. 
Laughing and feasting, on the poor below. 
Nor feel remorse nor shudder at their woe? 
Nay, as sweet music oft is sweeter found 
By frequent contrast with discordant sound, 



190 lone, 

So wealth seems sweeter for the poverty around. 

Trust not the pen, nor what it testifies, 

The pen is mighty often but in lies; 

Trust your own natural passions and your eyes: 

Look not into a book upon the shelf 

But, if you'd truly know, look to the thing itself. 

The bards know naught of money save its lack 

And that being painful straight they damn it 

black ; 
Believe them never; gold is more than kind, 
Ay, gold is golden even to the blind. 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
Nor trust in rhyme nor reason, prose nor verse: 
Yon gilded fool can stutter genius down 
And damn his inspiration with a frown; 
Yon puppet, be he worked by golden strings. 
Shall sit with princes and consort with kings 
And cherubim shall fan him with their wings. 

The dirty work must needs be done by some. 
Therefore get gold, or numbered with the scum, 
You'll pack the offal, swill and tend the hogs. 
Or fetch and carry for a rich man's dogs : 
Your very sons shall loathe you for your grime 
And wish your squalid toil were gilded crime. 

Each act of poverty is questioned still. 
But riches, without question, does its will; 
The pauper's hour of prayer is not his own. 
The rich man's orgies still are left alone. 



And Other Poems. 191 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse. 
And earth's denunciation and heaven's curse, 
The church's clamor and the state's reproof, 
Shall turn like warded lightning from your 

roof: 
Your hands can juggle with that holy fire 
That plays 'twixt heaven and the church's spire, 
The laws shall lackey to you, and the pen 
Drip incense sweet as gums Arabian. 
Therefore get gold, nor for your soul delay; 
Riches knock once, then hasten on their way, 
Eut Christ's salvation may be had on any day! 

Look here upon this honest man, then here 
Upon his neighbor! One has naught a year. 
The other, thousands — nay, a million has; 
One treads in Truth's, the other Mammon's 

paths ; 
The first is honest, but the other not : 
So far the first is happier: then what? 
Why, soon the honest man has lost his health! 
Or that position that was all his wealth. 
And falling lower and still lower yet. 
Betrayed by evil times and growing debt. 
Himself and all his family are compelled 
To get by squalid toil what Mammon has with- 
held: 
His daughters on an evil world are thrown 
To slave for that which heaven made their own^ 



192 lone, 

To face temptation, oft to be subdued 

By hunger stronger than their fortitude. 

To marry far beneath them and beget 

Degraded young, whose young is lower yet. 

His sons, uneducated, leave their home 

To labor dully, or in squalor roam. 

To bear the heavy burdens and to freeze. 

The heirs of accident and foul disease. 

Or, lower still, be driven into crime 

And toil in villainies like toads in slime 

His wife a weary household drudge becomes 

Without a thought beyond the kitchen crumbs ! 

Not so the rich man nor his family; 

In city home, or cottage by the sea. 

His happy sons and daughters gather ^round 

And make of mirth one sweet, continual sound; 

And, Fortune's favorite, his wife is there. 

Still wiser than her sons and than her daughters 

fair! 
Get money, then, or there may come a time 
When poverty will drag you in its slime. 
And all your honesty shall end in pain or crime. 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
Toil, beg or borrow, swindle, steal, or worse: 
Were it not better to defile your hands 
By robbing others' tills and others' lands. 
Than that, for lack of nourishment, your wife 
Should bear you children sickly all their life. 



And Other Poems. 193 

Anemic, imbecile, and ricket brood 
Whose only sin — a mother's lack of food? 

Dishonesty may make your name reviled 
But poverty can damn your helpless child! 
Get out; get gold: who cheats his neighbor 

first, 
His children shall not hunger nor shall thirst! 

The land is sweet with orchard and with vine. 
The press is overflowing with its wine. 
The cattle low across the grassy lea. 
You sink in fragrant clover to the knee. 
The bees are droning in the warm sunshine 
'And o'er the walls the morning-glories twine, 
But, without money, you shall starve and pine: 
Peace, beauty, plenty, shelter, everywhere. 
But, if your purse is empty, only toil and care! 

Get money; nature will not question you 
As whether it was gotten false or true. 
By honest toil or shameful villainy, 
And, having millions, neither will society. 
Get gold; dismiss your conscience from your 

breast. 
So many men and every one possest 
With something called a conscience for its name. 
But never yet two consciences the same! 

Go to, I say; put money in your purse; 
'T will ease each greater, overcome each lighter 
curse: 



194 lone, 

Never too young to get it nor too old ; 
Turn everything you touch to yellow gold; 
^T is better that you blush for treasons done 
Than hunger, thirst and slave from sun to sun. 

Stolen glimpses of the great through statelj 
doors, 
Rich hanging tapestries, long, level floors, 
Broad oaken stairways leading up and on 
To splendid halls and gilden suites withdrawn, — 
These cannot comfort you when you are cold. 
Forsaken, poor, and miserable and old; 
But, having money, all of these are yours, 
With pleasure knocking at an hundred doors. 

The poor have poor and miserable ways 
Beset by strife and trouble all their days : 
Their lives are like some wretched ship a-leak 
Whose wretched crew dare scarcely pause or speak, 
But labors in the hatchway or the hold 
Bereft of hope; its food and water doled. 
All <jomforts thrown into the vasty deep. 
All pleasures sacrificed, with scarcely time for 

sleep. 
They battle daily Against a thousand odds, 
AH men against them, often all the gods, 
Nor for some splendid prize or trophy strive 
But merely that they still may keep alive! 

Look there upon that poor abandoned wretch — 
between yourself and him, ah, what a stretch; 



And Other Poems. 195 

So poor, besotted, miserable and foul 

The very devil would not buy his soul ! 

He shuffles on and leaves the spirit sick. 

His supper with abandoned dogs to pick. 

To such a being and to all his sort 

Kind hearts than mile posts further are apart. 

Yet there no broader line or chasm is 

Dividing off your destiny from his 

Than money and the cursed line it draws 

'Twixt man and man and man's unequal laws: 

Lose but your fortune, then your health can 

fail 
And you may struggle on without avail 
To sink into the like and damnable detail. 
Get money, then ; though riches may have wings 
Black poverty has her ten thousand stings. 

Riches can purchase, poverty is bought; 
Riches are courted, poverty unsought; 
Riches have leisure, poverty must sweat; 
Riches can spend, but poverty must get; 
One dwells in palaces with golden ease. 
The other in a hovel with Disease! 

Riches are noble, poverty depraved; 
Riches go free, but poverty's enslaved; 
Riches can laugh, while poverty must plan; 
Riches mock God, but poverty fears man: 
Get riches and your daring can go far — 
All things save poverty forgiven are ! 



196 lone, 

Kiches can bathe the calendar in blood 
And be forgiven, but not Jordan's flood 
Can cleanse the pauper of a little stain, 
For with his poverty so shall his fault remain. 

Whoso has money has the only good, 
A truth oft spoken, ever understood: 
Get money, then ; get it by rack and screw 
Nor fear that bugbear end of Shakespeare's Jew — 
Your Shylocks never fall in actual life 
But only in the play and its inverted strife. 

Get money, and more money, and, then, more, 
Ingot and nugget, bullion, coin and ore. 
Deed, bond and mortgage, warrant, note and 

bill. 
For money is the engine of the will ; 
It shakes all heaven and it moves all earth, 
Draws down the angel Death — and shapes our very 
birth! 

Get money, and more money, and still more. 
For damned be he who shall continue poor! 
Remember, whatsoever you shall get 
Get money, and more money; still more yet: 
When you have millions you have not enough. 
You only have begun to get the precious stuff; 
Get on and on; amass ten millions more. 
Then bury that beneath a greater store. 
Like Alexander you shall never mourn. 
For money's conquest has no end or bourn; 



And Other Poems. 197 

This ancient earth can conquered be, but gold 
The more its conquests are the more it shall be- 
hold. 
Go to, I say ; put money in your purse ; 
The lack of money is lifers greatest curse ; 
Nor think this satire, for you'll find it truth, 
And gold will rule your age though beauty sway 
your youth! 



THEY'RE TRAINING BOYS TO MURDER 
DOWN ON ARMY STREET. 

The/re training boys to murder down on Army 
Street! 

Throw up your window wide and hear their tramp- 
ing feet. 

They're training boys to murder in the name of 
God; 

They're breaking them for soldiers with an iron 
rod. 

Each bears a deadly rifle in his boyish hands, 

And now the captain calls aloud his stern com- 
mands ; 

They kneel — they load — ^take aim — you hear the 
triggers click — 

And they have learned to slay! and oh, the heart 
grows sick. 



198 lone, 

The little children .follow, mimicking it all, 
Held by the awful scene as by some magic thrall; 
Then back unto their mother hasten from the drill 
And beg for sword and rifle that they, too, may 
kill. 

They^re training boys to murder down on Army 
Street! 

Throw up your window wide and hear their tramp- 
ing feet. 

They're training boys to murder — in God's name, 
who are ? 

Why, you and I, and all apologists of war ! 



EOSA LEE. 



Rosa Lee was sweet of face 

As one of heaven's angel race. 

Blue-eyed as Fancy's youngest heir 

As blithesome and as debonair; 

With golden curls around her brow 

And lips as sweet as swaying almond bough'. 

As rose-buds wear their beauty, she 
Her beauty wore — unconsciously; 
Nor dreampt how fair and full of grace 
Her maiden form and lovely face. 



And Othei Poems. 199 

Her look, her smile, her lightest glance. 
Her sweet refusals, sweeter complaisance. 

She dwelt beside an inland sea. 
This gracious child of liberty: 
The very flowers she walked between 
Took on a lovelier scent and sheen, 
And brighter ran the babbling brook 
That caught the beauty of her darling look. 

For her, I think, the dews were made, 
And golden light and spangled shade; 
And well I ween the poets came 
Into the world to praise her name: 
And hearts were made to throb and beat 
And cast themselves beneath her gentle feet. 

A mighty lord came from the east. 
Whose riches daily were increast. 
And courted her, as rich men do. 
With jewels clear as morning dew. 
With gold and silk and linen fine. 
And castles numerous as whisp'ring pine. 

An humble youth came out the west 
Who loved her only and loved best; 
Whose riches were a simple cot 
Where honor was, though glory not. 



200 lone; 

An upright heart and constant mind. 

Bright hopes before him and bright deeds behind. 

O Rosa Lee was true as truth — 

She's wedded to that humble youth. 

And this forever be her praise, 

Length'ning and sweet'ning through the days — 

She might have ruled from south to north 

But chose, instead, to rule one true man's hearth ! 



HONOR. 



life is much, and love is much. 

And beauty all adore; 
And sweet a maiden's gracious touch. 

But honor, friend, is more. 

glory leads unto the height 
Where but the great have trod. 

And riches lead to power and might. 
But honor leads to God. 

,0 diamonds and pearls are brave. 

And rubies never rust. 
But honor shines within our grave 

And dazzles from our dust. 



And Other Poems. 201 

genius makes the kingly bard 

Wliose fame the ages span, 
And lin'age makes the mighty lord. 

But honor makes the man. 



MOTLEY. 



We make too much of farce in this, our time. 
Too much of jest; a dearth of serious things. 
We stoop too often, and instead of wings 

Wherewith to soar to solemn heights sublime 

We wear the jester's cloak, and play the mime 
On all occasions. Ay, our very kings 
Are clothed in motley, and when the poet 
sings 

His verse is nothing if not jesting rhyme. 

Is heaven w^on, or sorrow's tears aye stilled 
That there is nothing sober to attempt? 

Are all the myriad mouths of hunger tilled 
That half our time for humor is exempt? 

Is there no later news from heaven or hell 

For poets' ears to catch and poets' lips to tell? 



202 lone, 



POET, BUILD FOR ME A SPLENDID 
POEM. 

Poet, build for me a splendid poem 

Wherein my soul may dwell, 
And, in the snre supremacy of truth, 

All doubts of God repel. 

Build me a high, unconquerable hope 

That atheists cannot shake: 
Build me a moated castle of true faith 

That doubt shall never take. 

clothe me in the golden mail of faith 

'Gainst engines of despair. 
And furnish me against the siege of doubt 

With living waters there. 

worker in the spirit stuff of thought. 

Build me this citadel. 
Build me this moated, heaven-kissing seat. 

And there my soul will dwell. 

And living faiths shall like tall sentinels 

Cry down, Who goeth there? 
And naught shall enter that abode of light 

Save who is heaven's heir. 



And Other Poems. 203 

EROS SEEKING. 

The golden sunshine broods o'er fairyland, 
The crystal waters meet, and kiss, and part; 

The purple mountains rise on either hand 
Far-distant like some magic dream of art; 

The heavens with odorous airs are fan'd, — 
But Love goes searching on with anxious heart. 

Goes searching through the tender, livelong day. 

Aye putting by the flowers from his onward way. 

All night among the fairy hills he sought, 
ISTor rested when the morning star grew dim; 

And often was his trailing mantle caught 
On thorn and brier and overbranching limb. 

All night, and all the eve before he sought 
Aye by the pale light of the moon's cold rim ; 

And still he hastens on with anxious heart. 

And still his troubled breast his weary wings ex- 
hort. 

Ah ! where is Psyche, his immortal Queen ? 

He cannot find her anywhere no more: 
Not in all fairyland hath she been seen 

Since last the golden tide set from the shore : 
Gone as a bright star from the blue serene 

Leaving an empty space to tremble o'er; 
Gone as splendor out of fairyland. 
Evanishing in heaven like a mist thrice fan'd. 



204 lone, 

Poets, searching in a land of dreams 
For Beauty with the red rose in her hair, 

Have ye seen Psyche by Olympus' streams 
Eesting her wings upon the haunted air. 

Or in the white light of the moon's bright beams 
Sleeping forgetful of her love's despair? 

if ye have, then hasten with the news 

Back where young Eros weeps amid the silver 
dews. 



LAUGHOLOGY. 

There's palmistry, phrenology. 

And old astrology, 

And other "sciences" manifold 

To tell your fate and get your gold. 

There 're many who can "see 
Your fate in leaves of tea," 
Or in crystal spheres 
Foretell the coming years. 

But, ah, my friend, were I 
The least inclined to spy 
Thro 13 gh ke3'^hole small or great 
In Time's three-barred gate, 
Fd do it otherwise 
Than by reading of the skies. 



And Other Poems. 205 

Or human hard or head, 
Or leaves of tea outspread. 
Or gazing in a sphere 
Of crystal, smooth and clear. 

The human laugh would be 

My chart of destiny. 

And they who laughed the 

Would lead the rest 

In everything that 's good 

For woman- or man-hood; 

While they who never laugh at all 

A merry ha! ha! ha! 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! 

For them I'd prophesy a fall. 

And failure and despair. 

And wretchedness and care. 

An empty bosom and a fortune bare. 



SET A WINDOW. 

set a window in thy soul 
And let it face the True, 

And plant the rose of Beauty there 
And water it with dew. 



2o6 lone, 

cut a door within tixV heart 
And give to Love the key. 

That only Love may come and go. 
Aye debonair and free. 

build a highway to thy brain 

Wide as Eternal Truth, 
That angels, four-abreast, may come 

To thee in age and youth. 

clear the waste-lands of thy life 
And plant great thoughts and true. 

Which, like tall cedars, will draw down 
Sweet heaven's rain and dew. 



LIVE ON, OLD TREE ! 

Live on, old tree. 

And cast thy pleasant shadow o'er the ground! 
Be thou a shelter to the dove's white wing, 
A living choir where sweetest birds shall sing: 
Let all thy branches be one sober green 
Till autumn comes; then hap'ly will be seen 
A veil of saffron, aureate and warm. 
Cast over thee, as by some magic charm 



And Other Poems. 207 

Of air or heaven : then come winter down 

And robe thee in warm ermine snow, and crown 

Thee king of maples. 

0, thou faithful tree. 
If brutes inherit immortality, 
Shalt thou not also ? Surely thou shalt be 
Among the risen, and forever stand 
A tall, green angel in the Holy Land. 



THE SPIRIT OF WAR. 

I am the Spirit of War, and inherit 
' One-third of this earth for my own; 
And millions unborn in my name shall mourn 
I And bleed at the foot of my throne. 

I ride on the blast, and my wings overcast 

Temple and church and home; 
And I sweep to their doom tall cities that bloom 

With a splendor never on Rome. 

I fill the earth with a ghastly mirth. 
With the revels of drunken men, 

With the mob's wild shout and the licensed rout 
Of the pillager broke from his den. 



2o8 lone, 

I kill the bride at the bridegroom's side; 

I slay the babe at the breast; 
I glut the grave with the fair and the brave; 

I torture and bum the best. 

As under an arch, the nations march 

Under my wings outspread; 
And Death, with the Fates, in my shadow awaits^ 

And Horror uprears her head. 

Oh, I am the same as the Fiend but in name. 
Yet the preachers call me sublime. 

And the poets bring unto me as a king 
Their tribute of stately rhyme. 

I sicken the moon with corpses strewn 

By glade and by field and by flood : 
I fatten all hell with powder and shell. 

And gorge all her furies with blood. 

To my lips I hold up as a chalice or cup 

The skull of the innocent child; 
And ravish the maid that I have betrayed. 

And flay her when she is defiled. 

I have come and gone, with bloody sword drawn, 

Wherever the blue sky domes, 
And have dragged an iron net with heart's blood 
wet 

Through every bright land of homes. 



^&nd Other Poems. 209 

With cannon and shell and the banners of hell 

I lead my mjnriads on, 
And where at dusk was a land of musk 

Is the vale of Hinnom ere dawn. 

Oh, I am the sorrow of earth, and I borrow 
The pangs and the torments of hell. 

And I rack not alone the flesh and the bone 
But I torture the soul as well. 

Oh, I am that Shape that few shall escape, 
And Death has built me a throne. 

And I shake the earth like an earthquake's birth. 
And bind it with bloody zone. 

And whenever men make an excuse for my sake 

The devil then laughs aloud. 
And for every plea in favor of me 

Death weaves another shroud. 



IN THESE, OUR TIMES. 

In these, our times, when time is everything. 
There 's time for all things either new or old 
Time without end for gaming and for gold. 

For fashion, nettle-like of bloom and sting. 



2IO lone, 

Eor news and gossip of the throne and king; 

For novels, plays, and players manifold; 

For sports unnumbered: time, when all is told. 
To harp a thousand tunes on folly's string: 

Time for all things, save poetry alone. 

Save rhyme and rhythm and their melodious 
scheme : 
Save Beauty girded round with jewels of tone 

Soft-pacing by the bright Aonian stream: 
Save distant glimpses of the dim Unknown 
Through poetry's easement opening on the 
Dream ! 



SO DEEP IN LOVE AM I. 

could I sing but one more song. 

One song before I die, 
I'd sing of love to thee, my Love, 

So deep in love am I. 

had I but one other dream, 

One dream before I die, 
I'd dream thy face was shining, Love, 

My open casement by. 



And Other Poems. 211 

had I but one other wish, 

One wish before I die, 
I'd wish thy path through roses. Love, 

Though I beneath them lie. 

could I take one treasure hence. 

One treasure when I die, 
I'd take a kiss of thine, my Love;, 

So deep in love am I. 



THE BOOK OF THE YOSEMITE. 

Have you read from that Book that was written: 

of old. 
When the heavens were young, and the planets 

new hung 
On hinges of diamond and gold? 

Have you read from that volume, that wonderful 

tome. 
With the light of the ages a-glow on its pages, 
That Book with the West for its home? 

Have you read its great metre, its marvelous lines. 
With a wonder of thought that puts Shakespeare 

at naught 
'As brambles are dwarfed by tall pines? 



212 lone, 

It is bound in the purple of heaven convex, 
And its characters are each fresh as a star. 
And God has illumined the text. 

'T is a lyric by mom, and an epic by night, 

A bright drama by noon, and beneath the soft 

moon 
An anthem to beauty and light. 

thou Book of Yosemite, Heaven writ thee. 
And thy verses are sung in bright Heaven's own 

tongue. 
And run through all harmony. 

In the glory of noon I have read thy great lines. 
And re-read thee at night by the silver moonlight, 
Overshadowed by whispering pines. 

1 have read thee by twilight, and read thee by 

dawn; 
And re-read thee at dusk, when the earth was all 

musk, 
And all the sweet night have read on. 

thou Book of the Soul, oh, thou Volume su- 
pernal. 
You run into song that our pulses prolong. 
And glow with a freshness eternal. 



And Other Poems. 213 

And millions unborn shall be charmed by thy 

pages. 
And when Homer is not, and great Milton forgot. 
Thou still shalt be read of the ages. 



CALL HIM A POET. 

Homy his hands and uncouth is his speech, 

And the pen unfamiliar to him; 
Born to the soil as an ox to the plow. 

With the strength of an ox and the limb. 

Ah, but his soul is a true poet's soul. 
And the work of his brain and his heart 

Heaven has weighed and the angels have praised 
As the bright consummation of art. 

!N"ot as a closeted singer he sings 

Till the heat of his frenzy grows cold. 

Nor as a poet who writes and writes on 
For the guerdon of honor or gold; 

But as a human who loves and is loved. 
Who has taken a fatherless child, 

Nurtured it kindly and made it a home 
And has kept its young life undefiled. 



214 lone, 

Taught it to honor the good and the great. 

And forever beware of deceit: 
Shaped its young soul as a poet his dream. 
Immortal and rounded and sweet. 

Call him a poet who labors like this, 
Though he never has written a line; 

Not a mere maker of idle-sweet lays. 
But a builder of beauty divine. 



TAKE THAT PICTUKE FROM THE 
WALL. 

take that picture from the wall^ 

And cut a window there. 
And let the golden sunlight in 

Upon the scholar's chair. 

take that battle scene away. 

That work of blood and death. 
And let the blue of heaven in 

And summer's gentle breath. 

Take down that painting, take it down;> 

Unfix that bloody scene. 
And let in visions of the sky 

And meadows sweet and green. 



And Other Poems. 215 

Make way for heaven's fiagran^ air, 

For glimpse of lambs a I play, 
For scent of rose and song of bird. 

And waters far away. 

God, we've had enough of war. 

Of blood and death and fear; 
Of manhood bleeding at the front 

And dying at the rear. 

Then take, oh take, that painting down 

Upon the schoolroom wall. 
That cruel, bloody scene of war 

With death-dew over all. 

For Christ's sweet sake, oh take it down 

And cut a v/indow there. 
And let the golden sunlight in 

Upon the scholar's chair ! 



GOD, IF EVER AVE HAD CAUSE FOR 
FEAR. 

God, if ever we had cause for fear. 
For deep solicitude and anxious care, 
If ever we had need of wakeful prayer. 

This is the season, this the solemn year ! 



2i6 lone, 

The fatted Time has turned away its ear 
Deaf to Thy chiding whispers on the air, 
To dance lasciviously to the snare 

Of luxury, and lust, her foul compeer! 

A storm is sweeping up to-morrow's shore. 

Already are the heavens overcast; 
The true, far-seeing prophet shakes before 

The future like a reed before the blast ! 
What can we hope for when these times are o'er. 

These times that, conscience whispers, cannot 
last? 



'T IS BETTER FAR. 

'T is better far to be unknown 

Than 't is to be forgot: 
To never have achieved a name 

Than know oblivion's blot. 

'T is better to have gone one's way 

Unnoticed and unsung. 
Than after splendid days to be 

Forgot of old and young. 

From out the book of glory struck, 
From memory's tablet razed, 

A looker-on where once you shone, 
Forgot, unsought, unpraised! 



And Other Poems. 217 

MAKE ROOM FOR YOUTH. 

Make room for Youth, ye gray-haired sires. 

Make room for Youth and daring; 
Make room about your council fires 

For Youth with kingly bearing. 

He comes — with knowledge on his tongue 

And courage in his heart. 
And courage never is too young 

To play a god-like part. 

Make room beside your eldest chief 

And by your wisest too — 
Who banish Youth must welcome Grief 

And all her retinue. 

Make room for Youth, for kingly Youth, 

Make room, I say, for him — 
Afar he shall discern the truth 

When your old eyes are dim. 

He comes through time's star-blazoned door 

With eager strength and laughter. 
With Promise pressing on before. 

Fulfillment hasting after! 



2i8 lone, 

THE COLUMN. 

Those stones stand longest whereon truths are 
writ! 

Let Justice then be graven in the base 
Of yon bright column, which we have seen fit 

To rear to heaven in this time of grace 

When good comes to all men and comes apace: 
Justice, not "Liberty''; Justice and Law! 

That cycle which the sure and coming Race 
Shall run without illusion, and shall draw 
All kingdoms to its sphere, as Christ of old fore- 
saw. 

We live for sterner and for deeper truth 

Than that for which our fathers bled and died. 

And not to "Liberty" — yet without ruth — 
We rear this column by the beating tide. 
And when its comer-stone has fallen aside 

Its sentiment shall still be sweet and strong! 
Yea, Justice shall endure and be our guide 

When "Liberty" shall have become a song, 

A closet-passion that the bards alone prolong. 

To Justice and not "Liberty" we build 
This stately column by the sounding sea. 

Another, brighter morn than ours shall gild 
Its crowning arch and fretted masonry, 
But from yon blue, eternal canopy 



I 



And Other Poems. 219 

The sun shall never shine on monument 
Reared to a nobler cause and destiny 
Than this we dedicate, without dissent, 
To Justice and to Law — the voice and instrument. 

We know that "Liberty" is not the v/hole 
Of that high destiny whereto we're led, 

Nor yet the noblest part, though poets enroll 
"Freedom" and "Liberty" the fountain-head 
Of grace unto the living and the dead. 

Our chief concernment it has ceased to be. 
And has become a name less heard than read. 

More often met with in past history 

Than where men dare and suffer or on land or sea. 

Ah ! not that "Freedom's" stars less brightly shine 

Do we to Justice dedicate this stone. 
But that in heaven has been seen divine 

A brighter star than o'er our fathers shone. 

Ah ! not that "Liberty" has been outgrown 
And no more can delight us or invite. 

But that "Liberty" is not enough alone 
To lead us onward. We need another light 
Than that which was our fathers — though pleasant 
in their sight. 

The spirit of our fathers is put by 

Ah! not because our kindnesses transcend 

Our fathers' kindnesses, but that we descry 
A glory that they could not comprehend: 



220 lone, 

We work not nobler, but to a broader end, 
Vv^e are not sterner, but the truth is more; 

We're not the braver but we apprehend 
A deeper meaning than has been before; 
We look beyond the stars and see a further shore. 



Our fathers flashed a sun to light the world 
And lo ! it shows us fairer worlds beyond 

Whereto we move with "Freedom's" flag unfurled. 
But Justice now the spirit and the bond 
Of man's best feelings — which shall not de- 
spond ! 

Our fathers made us fine with liberty 

And we are finer for the truth; more fond 

Of justice since they fought to make men free: 

Raised by their works we grasp a broader phi- 
losophy. 



DARKEN THE WINDOW AND DARKEN 
THE DOOR. 

darken the window and darken the door 
And take this red rose from my hair: 

go from my presence and vex me no more; 
leave me alone with despair. 



And Other Poems. 221 

let me forget that the heavens are blue, 

let me forget it is June: 
let me forget that you vowed to be true, 

let me forget — or I swoon! 

this is the morning when we were to wed, 

this is the day of all days! 
And now you avow that your passion is dead, 

And we must go opposite ways. 

well for your soul that you find this is so 

Before 't is forever too late! 
well for your soul ! Fare you well now, and go. 

To her whom you love and not hate. 

go to the woman that stole you from me, 

go to her side and rejoice ! 
She casteth the spell of the wanton o'er thee. 

And shame lures you on through her voice! 



HYPOCRISY. 



A poet writing with a stolen pen. 
Imparting honesty to youth; 

A harper harping on a pilfered harp. 
Singing of truth; 



222 lone, 

A robber giving alms of stolen wealth; 

A parricide toasting his murdered sire's health I 

Can foul h3'pocrisies 

Strike deeper root than these? 

Ay, when a public trust 

Is used to glut a private lust: 

When war is forced upon a land 
In Liberty's bright name, 

That some offieiaFs bloody hand 
The proper moment and the hour 
May grasp the mane of power 
And mount to wealth and fame 
And cheat an injured people of a patriot's acclaim. ! 



THE TWO VOICES. 



FIRST VOICE. 



The sun of Liberty has sunk to rest, 

Gone down in depths abysmal, dark, and vast. 
As sinks Hyperion into the west, 

Its last hour loveliest — but ah, its last. 
And Tyranny comes forth like stormy night 
When wild beasts stalk abroad and howl from every 
height ! 



And Other Poems. 223 

No glow of Freedom's golden sun remains 
Save that reflected by the poet's line; 

Gone is its glory from the level plains, 

From wood and mountain, home, and fount, and 
shrine ; 

And we who watched the setting of that sun 

Shall never, never see its dawning ! No, not one ! 

SECOND VOICE. 

Who can call back the morning, or bind fast 
The golden sun that sinks into the sea? 

Nor man nor angel ! But from forth the vast 
Shall dawn another morn right gloriously: 

So shall the sun of Freedom once again 

Flame in the zenith, and burn from Ind to Darien ! 



MY LOVE A CONSTANT BEAUTY IS. 

My love a constant beauty is 
A constant joy and wonder; 

Nor artful plot nor evil league 
Can part us 'twain asunder. 

She dwells along a flowery way 

Where sorrow visits never: 
I've loved her since the roses came 

And I shall love her ever. 



224 loncy 

She wears one jewel on her breast, 
But in her heart an hundred. 

Ah! how I lived ere yet we loved 
I've often vainly wondered. 



FOUR BOOKS. 
I. 



This book is like a little sun 
As warm and bright and golden 

Arid gildeth all it treats upon 
Of modern times or olden. 

Dear God ! it shineth in my face 

Whene'er I turn its pages, 
All warmth, all cheerfulness, all grace. 

So may it shine for ages. 



11. 



This book is like an hermitage. 
Where I may pass at even 

A quiet hour wdth poet and sage 
And spirits kin to heaven. 



And Other Poems. 225 

Where there is much to speak about 
And more to love and rev'rence; 

Where never cometh darker doubt 
Nor life and God are at severance. 

III. 

This book is like a good old man 

With frosty heart yet kindly; 
The leader of a little clan; 

Decided, but not blindly. 

One who has traveled and seen much, 

Yet holds the world discreetly; 
And though with but a few in touch 
In touch with those completely. 

IV. 

This book is like a mighty world 

In the firmament suspended. 
From forth the hand of genius hurled, 

With its own sun attended. 

A world eternal and sublime. 
With life and matter teeming; 

With its own mountains, seas and clime. 
And gods above them dreaming. 



226 lone, 



THE POET. 

Nobly he writes of what was nobly done. 
Building great verses on from sun to sun : 
Now paints a god, now limns the hand of Fate, 
And makes his verses like his subject, great: 
Now hears the thunder rolling far along 
And echoes back its voice from peaks of song: 
NovvT clashes mighty verses till they rock 
Like wars confusion, or an earthquake's shock! 
He looks upon the sunrise, then in rhyme 
Reflects its chastened glory for all time: 
He sees the gates of evening open wide 
And the silver moon come forth like heaven's 

bride. 
Then makes it evening once again in song, 
And from his verses, bright and clear and strong, 
As from another east there doth arise 
A poet's moon that climbs the azure skies. 
He adds great verse to verse like star to star 
And with his hands the gates of truth unbar. 
He looks on lovely summer like the stream 
Reflecting all the glory and the dream. 
Like some charmed, silent household Nature sleeps 
Until the poet comes and laughs and weeps. 
Then Nature through her myriad halls awakes 
A living thing, that breathes and joys and aches ! 



And Other Poems. 227 

When all the gods are dumb he bravely speaks 
And Beauty's end and not his own he seeks ! 
In crystal verse he sets a crj^stal thought, 
Or tools a sonnet like a gem inwrought. 
His lovely verses cluster 'round their theme 
Like roses 'round their stem. lie wakes the Dream 
That sleeps with Silence and sends it forth to be 
A glory and a light eternally ! 



HER STEP IS MUSIC AT MY DOOR. 

Her step is music at my door. 
Her knock is sweetest song; 

And w^hen she speaks a gladness leaps 
Somewhere my heart along. 

Her face awakes the man in me. 
Her touch awakes the god: 

I am no longer since she came 
A dull and selfish clod. 



TAKE DOWN THOSE GIFTS. 

Take down those gifts you've brought for me- 

Those costly gifts, I pray, 
And hang a dream upon the tree 

This holy Christmas day. 



228 lone, 

Take down those gifts so rich and rare 

Which you in love bestow, 
And hang upon the branches there 

One dream of long ago. 



Hang me a dream of darling youth 

Upon the Christmas tree, 
A dream of glory, hope and truth — 

Such dreams as used to be! 



little need have I this day 
Of gifts of pearl and gold; 

My hair, you see, is turning gray 
And I am growing old. 



But, oh, for one bright dream of youth. 
One dream of boyhood pride. 

When life seemed honor linked with truth 
And love walked at my side. 



Then take those costly gifts away. 
And on the Christmas tree 

Hang me one dream of boyhood's day- 
Such dreams as used to be ! 



And Other Poems. 229 



LASS OF THE LAND OF THE LISTED 
LANCE. 

lass of the land of the listed lance, 
O maid of the tilt and the tourney, 

Send me a glance 

From old romance 
And my heart will go on a journey, 

Back to the days of amour and armor. 
Of herald and knight and esquire; 

The days of chivalry, 

Love and revelry ; 
Days of the lute and the lyre. 

Days of the joust ere armor in rust 
Hung on the wall unregarded: 

To times romantic 

By shores Atlantic, 
When bards like kings were rewarded. 

There, there to kneel at thy feet and feel 
The power of love and its magic; 
Of love unacquainted 
With days that are tainted, 

With days that are tainted and tragic ! 



230 lone, 



THE HUMAN TONGUE. 

The tongue has parted more friends than death. 

Has blasted more hopes than war; 
The tongue is sharper than the adder's fang 

And it leaves a crueler scar. 

The tongue can heal when medicines fail. 

And under the human tongue 
Is the balm of Gilead which bringeth peace 

Whenever the heart is wrung. 

The tongue is a flaming sword of truth. 

Or a serpent coiled to sting : 
The human tongue is a poisoned well 

Or an angel-haunted spring. 

The tongue is a fiend forever at home, 

A scorpion hid in its nest; 
A foul tarantula shut in its hole — 

And woe unto they who molest ! 

The tongue is love's baptismal font; 

The wing of eternal truth : 
The surest, keenest weapon of God; . 

The armor of age and youth. 



And Other Poems. 231 

The tongue is a trumpet that 's keyed in hell 

To summon the fiends from below : 
The tongue is a harp from heaven's bright choir 

And its music makes heaven to glow. 

never a witch's broth is brewed 

In the foulest depths of hell 
But a human tongue is cast therein 

To treble the damnable spell. 

never a drama of love is played 
But the chief and the crowning part 

Is enacted by the human tongue 
Whose cue is a loving heart. 

the human tongue is an angel bright. 

Or a devil a-smoke with hell; 
And over all life has power to cast 

Its blessed or evil spell! 



PLUCK AND LUCK. 

Now gold is where you find it, lad, 

But friends are where you make them; 

While opportunities are had 
Wherever you awake them. 



232 lone, 

Sometimes our clearest friend is gained 
Within the foeman's castle ; 

And Fortune, bravely entertained. 
Can oft be made our vassal. 



Then never talk of "luck" and "chance"; 

They have no sure existence. 
Away with "happy circumstance" — 

Naught's certain but persistence ! 



Mere luck is like the flowers that grow 
Upon an untilled heather — 

A little while they bloom and blow. 
Then die in frosty weather. 



While pluck is like the apple tree 
That bears in cold November, 

Whose fruit you pluck right merrily 
And roast in golden ember. 



And true pluck has a luck its own 
That luck alone has never; 

And you will leave all luck alone 
Save pluck-luck, if you're clever. 



And Other Poems. 233 



DRIFTING. 

I'm further away from the old home-light 
And away from my father's door, 

And further away from heaven to-night 
Than I was ever before. 

I'm further away from Honor's side, 

And further av/ny from God, 
And further awpy from my mother who died 

And the paths she blessed and trod. 

I'm further away from mercy to-night. 

Yet nearer unto my grave: 
I'm drifting away from the kindly light. 

Drifting on sin's dark wave. 

I'm nearer than ever before to shame, 

And n.earer to evil resort ; 
And nearer to staining my father's name 

And breaking my sister's heart. 

Fm further away from heaven to-night 

Than I was ever before ; 
And further away from the old home-light. 

And a mother who comes no more. 



234 lone, 



THOU WHO ART DIVINELY GIFTED. 

thou who art divinely gifted 
With the bright genius of song, 

Yet who never, oh never, have lifted 
Thy voice against wrong: 

singer of a thousand sweet lays, 

builder of beautiful verse, 
Yet who never, oh never, once flays 

Sin, or its curse. 

O turn from the paths of beauty, 
wake from thy dreams of delight ; 

Come into the arena of duty 
And smite for the right. 

Come forth with thy magical numbers. 
Come forth with thy star-pointed pen: 

Shake off the dream that encumbers 
And mingle with men. 

the lily needs not thy adorning, 
And the rose is lovely enough; 

But the vicious need thy warning 
And the proud thy rebuff. 



And Other Poems. 235 



Let the little poets and the narrow 
Sing sweetly of beauty and youth; 

Be thou a swift-flaming arrow 
In the quiver of Truth. 



THE WHEEL OF CHILD LABOR. 

the wheel of labor, the wheel of child labor, 

It turneth ^round night and day, 
And oh brother, oh sister, oh friend, and oh neigh- 
bor, 

'T is wearing young lives away. 

For ever and ever it whirleth around; 

No pause, no cease, no rest : 
It crushes our little ones unto the ground, 

It dashes the babe from the breast. 

Oh a wheel of fire is the wheel of child labor, 

And it bums to the very brain ; 
'T is cruder than either the sword or saber; 

"T is dark with a bloody stain. 

It smokes with sacrifice through the long years. 
It smokes with the blood it has spilled: 

T is a wheel turned 'round by a river of tears. 
God, the young lives it has stilled ! 



236 lone, 



Around and around for ever and ever, 

And Death goeth 'round with it; 
Around and around and the toiler, oh never. 

Can pause till the worn heart split. 

Around and around and, oh night and day ! 

How the i'uces of the toilers change; 
How they chaiige, how they fade, how they waste 
away. 

How awful they grow and how strange ! 

the pity of it ! the sorrow of it ! 

the shame ! the brutality ! 
the crime of it ! the horror of it ! 

the black inhumanity ! 



A PRAYER. 



Lord, give me for my fortieth year 

A heart for any fate; 
A spirit firm, yet not severe; 

A body temperate. 

A conscience free of guilty deeds; 
A hand for charity ; 



And Other Poems. 237 

A mind above the little creeds ; 
A soul that dares be free. 

My feet upon the solid ground 

My head the stars among; 
A depth that gold can never sound; 

A nature ever 3'oung. 

Good health, good friends, good books, pure 
thought ; 

A mission worth the while; 
A lin'age to be loved and taught; 

A woman's wifely smile. 



WHEX SHALL DAWN THAT SPLENDID 
DAY? 

when shall dawn that splendid day 

When we of mortal race 
Shall gravitation's anchor weigh 

And sail the seas of space? 

Leave earth, like some low coast, behind 
And cleave towards the moon: 

On ! on ! as bounding as the mind. 
With all the man iii tune. 



238 lone, 

Beyond the winds, beyond the clouds, 

Through meteoric storms. 
To where eternal darkness shrouds 

World-without-end alarms. 

Past golden planets of the blest, 
And dance of married spheres. 

And moons all pallid with the rest 
Of a thousand million years. 

Past worlds that are but matter's ghost 
And ancient track of suns; 

Around that ultimate, dim coast 
Where hoary Chaos stuns. 

On waves of star-dust sailing fast 

Beyond Orion's seas. 
To make an anchorage at last 

Among the Pleiades! 



ODE TO LIBERTY BELL. 

Ring out, thou blessed Bell ! 

Ring out the King, ring in the State! 
Ring out, and let thy music swell 

To heaven'^ starry gate ! 



And Other Poems. 239 

Seraphs have thy tongue unbound, 
Seraph faces throng thee 'round, 
While in thy pauses sweet Heaven's deep organs 
sound ! 

Proclaim sweet Freedom's name! 

Proclaim that blessed hour has come 
To which the martyrs looked through flame 

In holy martyrdom! 
Ring thou out o'er field and town, 
And all other voices drown — 
Long hath Freedom been crushed down, 
Weaving her tears like stars into the martyr^s 
crown ! 

Cease not that blessed note! 

Cease not that holy harmony 
Pouring from out thy brazen throat 

Till kings shall bend the knee! 
Till each perished hope shall rise 
From the tomb wherein it lies, 
And clothe itself in living light 
To lead a People through a revolution's night ! 

Ring out, thou blessed Bell ! 

Ring out — a glory hath been bom! 
Ring out, and let thy music swell 

Above the rising morn! 



240 lone, 



All the air thou solemnize 
And this hour immortalize 
As o'er the sun of Europe a brighter sun doth 
rise! 



HANNAH MOORE. 

I had a sweetheart, but we parted 
At one sad evening^s close; 

Alas ! we quarreled and broken-hearted 
I left m}' sweet Irish rose. 

She lives at cottage number ten, 
Where drooping willows stand. — 

might I see her face again, 
might I touch her hand! 

I'm waiting, waiting, Love, 

Until you smile again, 
Until you welcome me 

At cottage number ten; 

The little cottage home 

With roses o'er the door 
But the sweetest rose within — 

My bonny Hannah Moore! 



And Other Poems. 241 

I loved my Hannah ere we parted 

Since then I've loved her more; 
And night and day I'm broken-hearted 

And wish our parting o'er. 

I could not miss the sun from heaven 

Like I miss Hannah Moore: 
I could not miss the stars at even 

Like her face gone from the door. 



A MORAL TALE. 

Now listen, friends, and I will tell 
And tell you plainly how 't befell 

I got this grievous crack: 
And sure, sweet friends, you cannot fail 
To find a moral in my tale 

If you but have the knack. 

Look where my head is broke across: 
A bitter wound! and, oh, the loss 

Of good, red honest blood ! — 
This morning, at the break of day. 
As I was jogging on my way 

I came to Silo's flood. 



242 lone, 

The river it was .wide and dank- 
I sat me down upon the bank, 

And as I sat I thought, — 
Then came a robber after me 
And fell upon me grievously; 

And thus I him besought: 



"Good friend, or if not friend, 'Good sir,' 
Prithee, put up thy stick of fir, 

Nor crack my pate across: 
Why should'st thou break an old man'i head, 
As gray a one as e'er touched bed. 

Or bowed to king or cross?" 

That villain answered: "God defend, 
If I don't crack thy noddle, friend. 

Some other robber will ; 
And I've a wife and family 
Who need thy gold right grievously; 

So, friend, I do no ill." 

And then he broke my head across; 
A bitter wound ! and, oh, the loss, 

Of good, red honest blood ! 
And then he robbed me of my purse 
^nd left me there for dead or worse, 

And ferried Silo's flood. 



And Other Poems. 243 



HATE. 

The quarrj^man, quarrying, sometimes find* 
Deep in the heart of a stone, 

A hideous, horrible, shriveled toad. 
Aghast, agape, and alone. 

So in quarrying into thy bosom to-day, 
I found that thy heart is a stone, 

And Hate, like a toad, is squatted within, 
Agape, aghast, and alone. 



MAY SUCH BOOKS PERISH. 

may such books perish 
Once and for all; 
May no man cherish 
Print them or scrawll 
They 're a delusion 
Honest men know, 
False in conclusion 
Breeding confusion_, 
Distraction and woe! 
Put them behind you. 
Don't let them blind you; 



244 lone, 

Hysterical, eippirical. 

Vain and chimerical, 

Bare of amenity. 

Truth and serenity; 

Stript of humanity, 

Lacking all sanity. 

Honor, urbanity; 

Heavy with vanity 

And fulsome inanity! 

the world's trouble 

Forever's made double 

By books like these; 

They corrupt half our youth. 

Demoralize truth, 

And blight like disease! 

They 're all for detriment, 

Nothing for betterment, 

Tools from the workshop 

Of Satan and Sin, 

Evil without and corrupt within! 

Shame on their publication. 

Stern be their reprobation, 

Swift be their condemnation, 

And damned be their preservation ! 



And Other Poems. 245 



THAT GOOD INK. 

that good ink 
Which might make men think 
Should curdle and blink 
And thicken and stink 
And be another link 
'Twixt man and the devil 
And all that is evil ! 



A LYING PRESS. 

Hell has no torment like a lying Press, 
Nor devils can devise a sharper rack: 
No torture does it overlook or lack; 

Cold, brutal, agonizing, pitiless! 

It has no merc}^, knows no sacredness; 
An Inquisition of the soul, as black 
As sunless hell ; a shape demoniac ; 

A torture v^^ithout hope, without redress! 

Its type are scorpions and its ink, hell-fire. 
Its staff are devils, and its editor 

Another Legion ! 'T is a Beast of Hire, 
Kept for the coward and conspirator. 



246 lone, 

Tk« meak, the scoundrel, felon, caitiff, liar, 
Tki bribed jndg« and the faithless senator! 



FOR A SPARKLING BOWL OF 
LAUGHTER. 

for a sparkling bowl of laughter 

That bright, authentic brew 
That leaves no sting or flatness after — 

Such as my boyhood knew ! 

With gladness welling like bright bubbles 

From out its depths of gold. 
Cleansing the heart of all its troubles. 

And loos'ning sorrow's hold. 

for a goblet overflowing 
With the bright, authentic stuff. 

To lift to spirit lips all glowing 
And drink till I cry Enough ! 

once again to drown my sorrow 

In a mead too sweet to last, 
Drink, and forget the bitter morrow. 

Drink, and forget the past! 



And Other Poems. 247 



I LIKE TO THINK THIS BEST OF 
WORLDS. 

I like to think this best of worlds 

Is going right ahead ; 
That some new work is done each day 

And some new thought is said. 

I like to see old ways forgot, 

Not sneered at but put by, 
And everything brought up-to-date, 

Beneath the dear blue sky. 

I like to know machinery 

Is doing half the work. 
And men and women need no more 

To slave like beast or Turk. 

I like to smell the factory smoke 

And hear the ring of steel; 
In loom and forge as in the rose 

God does himself reveal. 

I like to know that thought is free. 

Nor churches prisons are; 
And men no longer cast their kind 

^Neath bigotry's iron car. 



248 lone, 

I like this pleasant time of ours, 

This twentieth century, 
When there 's enough to go around, 

And most are fat and free. 

Let others prate of other days 
And sing their doleful rhymes, 

It is their souls that are poor, I think. 
And not these kindly times. 



LUTHER AT WARTBURG. 

Though pardon veils her face in brass 
My soul shall suffer no affright: 
Upon my forehead is a light 

That falls through neither stone nor glass; 

This marble where I come and pass 

Smells sweet, and glows the livelong night 
With angels' feet. This faith upright 

Man cannot break, though he harass. 

Thy prisoner, oh, Roman See? 
Nay, I am free to follow Him 

Not followed by dull feet of clay, 
But by the spirit. And, ye see. 
Although these castle walls be dim 
There 's light enough to kneel and pray ! 



And Other Poems. 249 



I THOUGHT TO WRITE MY NAME IN 
GOLD. 

I thought to write my name in gold, 
Where all would see and praise. 

Where neither time, nor heat, nor cold 
Could blemish, blot, or raze. 

I thought to seize the poet's pen 

And never put it down 
Till on from Ind to Darien 

Had traveled my renown. 

I thought to achieve a work of art — 

A poet's burning lay. 
That would outlive the human heart 

And be as 3'oung alway. 

But ah ! the master bards are few, 

And art is fearful hard; 
And I have failed — and bade adieu 

To art and its reward. 

And now I tuni — but not in scorn- 
To Duty's lowly cot 

To die unknown as I was born; 
Content to he f 01 got. 



250 lone, 

Right glad at last that kindly deeds. 
And love, and simple tasks, 

Are all that manhood really needs. 
And all that heaven asks. 



TAKE BACK THESE HONEYED SONGS. 

Take back these honeyed songs of love and youth 
And give, oh give me youth and love again ; 

Give me the workings of a boyish heart 
And take the music of the poet's pen. 



A primrose gathered in the May of youth 

Smells sweeter than the queenliest rose of song; 

Hope drinks its dew, while 'round its fragrant 
brim, 
Like painted butterflies, bright fancies throng. 



Then take these honeyed songs of youth and love, 
Take all their music and their garnered Joy, 

And give, oh give me love and youth again! 
Ay, take the poet and give back the boy! 



And Other Poems. 251 

DUTY. 

Like some steep path that leadeth 

Unto a verdant lawn. 
The path that leads to duty 

Still leads to heauty on. 

Yet upward and yet onward 

Until you gain the crest, 
Then all around shall dazzle — 

The footprints of the blest. 



THE BILLIONAIEE. 

*'How did the billionaire 

Amass his mighty hoard?" 
The People asked the Poet, 

The Poet asked the Lord. 
The Lord leaned out of heaven 

And took the rich man's heart 
And bared it to the Poet. 

(Well might that Poet start!) 
And this is how the billionaire 

Amassed his piles of gold: 
As sad a tale as ever yet 

The saddest poet told ! 



252 lone, 



By cheat and deceit, 

By guile and by wile, 

By hook and by crook ; 

By such deeds as would shame 

The devil to name! 

By robbing and jobbing, 
And gambling and scrambling. 
And fining and combining. 
And squeezing and freezing. 
And flaying and slaying! 

By hoaxing and coaxing. 
And duping and stooping. 
Railroading and goading; 
Now cheating a tenant, 
Now bribing a senate! 

By backing and sacking. 
Impeaching, o'erreaching. 
Contending, offending. 
And sweating and betting, 
And altering and paltering! 

By checking and wrecking. 
And luring and sluring, 
And Juggling and smuggling, 
And driving and conniving. 
And beguiling and defiling! 



And Other Poems. 253 

By deluding, intruding. 
Befooling, false-ruling. 
Entangling and strangling; 
Now watering stock, 
Now ^'shearing the flock!" 

By jewing and sueing. 
And plotting and boycotting; 
By hocus and pocus. 
And ways insidious, 
Deeds perfidious ! 

By hiding and dividing. 
And shuffling and scuffling, 
And shamming and damning, 
And abusing and confusing. 
And scarring and warring! 

By pledging, then hedging. 
And leasing and fleecing; 
By the sweat of another — 
A friend or a brother, 
A sister or mother ! 

By bribing and proscribing. 

And loading and toad'ing; 

By bickering and dickering; 

By every transgression and evil concession 

And act unbecoming a Turk or a Hessian ! 



254 lone, 

By exchanging, arranging, estranging. 
By winking and slinking and stinking, 
And lending and amending and pretending; 
By gambling in meat and in wheat and in flour, 
False-voting, promoting; devoting to money each 
hour! 

By hurting, diverting, perverting, 
Debasing, disgracing, out-facing; 
By buying and lying, the law still defying; 
By crushing and hushing — never once blushing ; 
And steering and queering, the small voice of 
conscience ne'er hearing! 

By corrupting the nation with bribed 'ministra- 
tion, 

Ward-heeling and stealing, concealing and squeal- 
ing; 

By great sins and little for tithe and for tittle; 

Time-serving, still nerving the heart to worse 
crime. 

Valuing nothing that 's sweet or sublime! 

By annoying and decoying and alloying and de- 
stroying, 

And supplanting and granting and recanting and 
covenanting. 

And fighting and back-biting and enditing and 
slighting. 



And Other Poems. 255 

And feigning and paining and straining and stain- 
ing, 

And deceiving and grieving and thieving and be- 
reaving ! 

By taking and breaking and raking and forsak- 
ing. 

And waylaying and betraying and dismaying and 
delaying, 

And shaving and slaving and depraving and basely 
behaving. 

And trading and evading and persuading and 
masquerading and ambuscading, 

And hating and adulterating and baiting and slat- 
ing and inflating and falsely legislating ! 

this is how the billionaire amassed his piles of 

gold, 
The saddest tale that ever yet the saddest poet 

told! 



THE MORAL POET. 

His poetry is a shaft shot at a mark, 
A flaming arrow hurtled through the dark 
To pierce the heart of Wrong and lay it cold and 
stark. 



256 lone, 

It is an engine terrible and bright. 

Forever standing on the side of Right 

To lay the evil flat and let in heaven's light. 

Or is a deep, prophetic organ voice 
That gives the list'ning soul of man no choice 
But upright ways and pure. And conscience doth 
rejoice. 

He is an archer of the shafts of song, 

Not for the dream or glory, but that Wrong 

Shall die in all her towers the wide land along. 



LOVE'S PYROGRAPHY. 

She 's a picture on my heart, 
Burned by Cupid's fiery dart, 
Drawn by Love's pyrography. 
And, behold, right gloriously ! — 
Golden curls to twine and kiss; 
Eyes like stars where souls in bliss 
Dwell forever; creamy brow; 
Cheeks like peaches on the bough; 
Lips like rose in dewy mist; 
Veins like running amethyst; 
Oval chin and swelling breast: 
Lovely, lovely, I protest! 



And Other Poems. 257 

Though I may forget the sun 
And the worlds that 'round him run. 
Moon and star and lesser light. 
Mom and noon and dewy night. 
Summer, winter, autumn, spring, 
Home and country, church and king, 
I shall not forget her name. 
Free as heaven of all blame. 
Nor her picture on my heart. 
Burned by Cupid's fiery dart. 
Drawn by Love's pyrography. 
And, behold, right gloriously! 



I DREAMT THE STARS ARE CHARACTERS. 

I dreamt the stars are characters, 

(0 heart, perhaps they are!) 
And Wisdom taught me how to read 

Them from afar. 



Methought I read from Orion 

Toward tlie Pleiades, 
Read from the mighty scroll of God 

His mysteries. 



258 lone, 

Those hieroglyphics of the skies. 
The countless stars of night, 

I read their eternal argument 
By their own light. 

And waking from that dream, I said; 

heart, perhaps 't is true; 
Perhaps the stars are letters writ 

In the steadfast blue. 

And we shall some day ages hence 
Make all their truths our own, 

As learning once interpreted 
The Rosetta stone. 



ALICE. 



O'er yon grave the stone is broken 
And the flowers withered all: 

There no loving words are spoken 
And no tears of sorrow fall. 

There a stranger in God's acre 
Sleeps beneath the withered grass. 

Where no gentle mourner lingers 
Though an hundred come and pass. 



And Other Poems. 259 

O'er the grave a broken chalice 
For no wreath collects the dew, 

But — beneath the sweet name Alice — 
Stand unfilled the long year through. 



Alice! 't is a name for heaven, 

For a soul among the blest; 
'T is the sweetest name e'er spoken 

Where young angels whisper "Rest!" 

Alice! 't is a hope I've cherished 

Through the long sweet-bitter years — 

Hopes have sprung and hopes have perished, 
But this hope lies close as tears. 



II. 



She was fair and true and tender. 
With a more than earthly grace. 

And I think upon the lilies 
When I think upon her face. 

For we parted Just at even 
In a garden dim and sweet, 

And the last bright beam of heaven 
Crowned the lilies at her feet. 



26o lone, 

Many times returning summer 

Since that day hath waked the rose. 

Many times the purple aster 
Hath been gathered to the snows. 

But though season follows season 
Alice comes not, nor is led, 

And I ask my heart the reason 
And it whispers, "She is dead!" 

Yet I hope that ^he is living, 
Though I fear that she is gone; 

And that fear is like the midnight. 
But that hope is like the dawn. 

III. 



Can it be my Love is sleeping 
Dust to dust heneath yon stone. 

Where a graven form is keeping 
Watch in silence and alone? 

Have I found my long-lost Alice 
Where Death's ivy ever drips? 

Have I found her in God's acre 
With life's welcome on my lips? 



And Other Pi;cnis. 261 

'T is the same sweet name of Alice 
And the grave is just her length! 

my God ! did Death's rude malice 
Touch her in her youth and strength? 

'T is that same far-distant countiy 

To whose shore she turned her face — 

Here she journeyed and ere winter 
I had lost her and all trace. 

Lo! within yon broken chalice 

I will plant a young rose tree 
And beneath the sweet name Alice 

Write, Beloved, is it thee? 



OLD DAN MILLER. 

Old Dan Miller was a rare old soul, 
Rotund of paunch and heavy of jowl. 
Fond of his pipe and fond of his bowl, 
His laugh contagion and his w^alk a roll. 

Old Dan Miller never went out 
To mend the world or turn it about; 
Stayed in his inn and swore that the gout 
Is trouble enough for a heart that is stout. 



262 lone, 

Smoked in his inn and vowed to his wife 
That a quiet life is the only life, 
That trouble and losses and sorrow and strife 
Are the portion of travelers; and ate with his 
knife. 

Old Dan Miller was the king of hosts, 

His signboard clattered between two posts; 

He had his tales and he had his boasts, 

Had been at nine weddings and seen three ghosts. 

Old Dan Miller was merry of heart; 
He held that to laugh is never an art. 
Never a trick or a thing apart 
But unto a man as the wheels to a cart. 

He fattened his cattle and fattened his frau. 
Fattened himself and his pot-boy Joe, 
Fattened his mare till she hardly would go — 
Swore that good fat is salvation below. 

Old Dan Miller was true as his word. 
Slow to be moved and hard to be stirred ; 
Wanted the facts as the facts occurred, 
And called it a lie when the truth was slurred. 

Rare old fellow, in faith, was Dan, 

Built on a rare if peculiar plan; 

Pinched the children when their cheeks were tan, 

Sighed when the children were peaked and wan. 



And Other Poems. 263 

Eold that a prayer will do its work. 

Bat a praj'er can't finish what the hands shall 

shirk : 
Smoked his pipe like an ancient Tnrkj 
And directed his pot-boy with nod and jerk. 



Old Dan Miller was known to dream, 
Singular thing though it may seem; 
Dream and nod and nod and dream 
Over the kettle's singing steam. 

Dream of a better land than this. 
Somewhere over the dark abyss, 
Where the little babe would never miss 
Its mother's face or her evening kiss. 

Where death would be but a memory. 
And his own little boy would laugh on his knee : 
Where Tartar and Turk w^ould at last agree. 
And all men be fat and all be free. 



Old Dan Miller is dead and gone; 
Green is his grave as a bowling lawn: 
Lord, may I meet his spirit anon 
Keeping an inn in the new white dawn! 



264 lone, 



MY LOVE IS FULL OF PRETTY WAYS. 

My Love is full of pretty ways 

As May is full of mallow. 
(Her eyes are blue as mountain pools, 

Her hair a golden halo!) 

My Love is full of kindnesses 

As June is full of clover. 
(No sweeter lass has ever tripped 

This golden, wide world over!) 

My Love is full of constancies 

As March is full of myrtle. 
(She brings me sunbeams in her eyes 

And pansies in her kirtle!) 

My Love is full of every good 

As Spring is full of grasses. 
(The meanest flower knows her step 

And sweetens as she passes !) 



THE POET IS A DEITY. 

The Poet is a deity 

And shapes a world his own, 
And rules it from his steadfast mind 

As from a throne. 



And Other Poems. 265 

He pours around it lucent floods 

Bends o'er 't an azure sky. 
And doeth all things lovingly. 

Both low and high. 

He makes the gentle rain to fall. 

And sets the golden bow, 
And builds the purple hills and crowns 

Their heads with snow. 

He brings the seasons in their turn — 

Mild autumn and bright spring; 
And tilts the rose with morning dew 

While sweet birds sing. 

He dances forth the mountain brook 

And weaves the fern-leaf there. 
While piney odors rise and fall 

Upon the air. 

He hangs the heavens with new stars 

Down all the zodiac. 
And with his hand upbuilds the west 

With sunset rack. 

He calls the forked lightning down 

And hurls the thunderbolt. 
And makes his heavens now to smile. 

Now to revolt. 



266 lone, 

He shapes a thousand human iouh 

Of high and low degree, 
And puts them down upon hig world 

To dwell and be; 

And gives them human hearts and mindi 
And human love and longing, 

And sets the shapes of Destiny 
Amidst them thronging. 



IF SHE SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 

If she should die to-night, 

I'd call to mem'ry then. 
With soul contrite. 

All sad occasions when 
I wronged that gentle heart of hers. 
Which now — God! — so faintly, weakly stirs. 

If she should die to-night. 

How every wrong of mine 
And petty spite 

Shown her who gave no sign, 
Would grow and wax upon my soul 
And sting me with remorse past all control. 



And Other Poems. 267 

If she should die to-night. 

The few, few faults she had 
Would seem how slight! 

And I should deem me mad 
To ever once have spoken ill 
To her whose place not all this world can fill! 

If she should die to-night, 

then I would recall, 
With heart contrite, 

Those many seasons all 
Wherein were means to testify 

My love for her, but which I let pass by. 

If she should die to-night. 

How stained my soul would seem, 
But hers — how w^hite! 

How like a selfish dream 
My past would then appear to me; 
While hers — how rich, how filled with charity! 



FATE. 



Thou stern, inscrutable, eternal Fate, 

Like he who scourged the ocean in his hate 

Thinking to punish, even so are we 

Wh"o in our weakness lift a voice 'gainst th^ee ! 



268 lone, 

How futile, then, must all arraignment seem 
Hurled 'gainst th}^ godhead ! Futile as a dream. 
Or engine hurtled 'gainst the morning mist 
Which, ere 't is troubled, ceases to exist. 
Yet, agonized, tormented, full of pain. 
Still shall humanity thy ways arraign ; 
Still storm thy ear as some high citadel, 
To take it never : nor shalt thou repel 
Its vain advance. The desert sphinx art thou, 
Humanity the wandering airs that blow 
Forever 'round thee: still thou lookest down, 
Unmoved, unriddled, without smile or frown! 



THE PEESENT. 

The Past is dead, the Future yet unborn; 

The Present — Lo ! 't is with me this new mom. 

An all-familiar spirit by my side 

From which I gladly would yet cannot hide. 

It follows me ; by God, it mocks me now ! 

Ill speak; perhaps 't will fade away: 

^^0 thou 
Familiar Spirit, wherefore vex me so? 
Thou wast a stranger but an hour ago; 
I neither knew thee nor didst thou know me; 
Then wherefore shouldst thou be mine enemy ?? 



i 



And Other Poems. 269 

^'^Thou never knew me ! Hast thou then forgot 
Thou spurned me yesterday, thou foolish sot? 
Hast thou forgotten and so soon forgot!" 
"By Christ, I never spurned thee ! Nay, what 's 

more, 
I never looked upon thy form before. 
Thou art a lying Present ! Hence, Ingrate, 
I hear the Future knocking at Time's gate. 
She comes — make way — she comes, my queen, my 

bride — 
Already I feel her presence at my side!" 

"0 unprophetic, unrecollecting fool, 

Thou novice in experience's school, 

I am that Future knocking at Time's gate, 

I am the spirit of the Past you hate. 

And I'm the Present, too — the awful Now 

To whom the angels of the Lord do bow! 

Go cleanse thy heart, and come and honor me, 

Then shall the Future be as a bride to thee. 

And all the past a blessed memory." 



MY HEAET IS WITH MY BEES TO-DAY. 

My heart is with my bees to-day, 

Across the summer lea. 
For there the clover is in spray 

And Nellie waits for me. 



270 lone, 

Her hair a bank of sunshine is 
And fragrant as the south: 

I'd rather kiss its slightest curl 
Than another maiden's mouth! 

Her lovely voice is sweeter far 
Than music in a dream; 

Her eyes are liquid as a star 
That shineth in a stream. 

I'd not exchange an hour with her 
For heaven's longest June, 

For Paradise without my Nell 
Were a song all out of tune. 



SHALL LOVERS DWELL APART? 

My happy heart goes on before, 
My feet they hasten after: 

Within my bosom is a store 
Of undefiled, warm laughter. 

I hear the blackbird's whistle clearly, 
I hear the mock-bird's call: 

I take the path I love so dearly 
And skirt the garden wall. 



And Other Poems. 271 

Beneath her roses she is waiting. 

The Musk-rose of my heart ! 
say, while all the birds are mating 

Shall lovers dwell apart? 



HER FORTUNE. 

"'Your face is your fortune,' my pretty maid; 
*Your face is your fortune/ dear," he said: 
"Your golden hair and your eyes of blue, 
Your cheeks like ^roses new washed in dew,' 
Your creamy brow and your dimpled chin. 
Your Cupid's mouth and the pearls within: 
*Your face is your fortune'; then come with me 

To my castles three 

Over the bright blue sea : 
And tarry not, dear, for the nuptial troth, 
For love is the wine and marriage the froth ; 
And tarry not, dear, for the bright wedding ring, 
But be you my queen and I'll be your king. 

And over the dew, 

A11 under the blue. 
We'll hasten away to those castles three 
Where Rapture is calling to you and to me !" 



272 lone, 

"Oh no, oh no !" cried the pretty maici, 
"My honor's my fortune, sir," she said: 
"A stainless name and a plighted troth — 
These are the wine and beauty the froth: 

And yonr castles three 

Over the bright blue sea 
Shall ne'er be the tomb of Honor and me." 



THE PROPHET. 

"Alas !" they said, 
"Our hands are red 

With blood of prophet slain! 
But ah, dear God, 
Spare Thou the rod 

And send Thy seer again. 

"We did not know 
Who struck him low 

That he was seer of Thine ; 
We did not guess 
He came to bless; 

We could not read Thy sign. 

"The trutlis he taught. 
The deeds he wrought. 



And Other Poems. 273 

To us, ah, what were they ! 

We called him fool 

Both church and school, 
And stoned him ! Woe the day ! 

"But ah, dear God, 

Put back the sod 
That 's green above his grave: 

Give him again 

Into our ken — 
We know his lips can save. 

"Give back the dead. 

The seer that 's fled. 
And we will homage do; 

Low at his feet 

We'll take our seat. 
And learn, of him we slew." 

The good God heard 

The people's word. 
And did their prayer fulfill: 

But lo! He gave 

That seer from the grave 
A broader wisdom still. 

He raised that seer, 
Dead many a year. 



274 lone, 

And gave liiin back to men; 

But gave his brain 

A richer vein, 
His hand a wiser pen. 

From field and waste 

The people haste 
To catch this prophet's fire. 

He speaks — and lo! 

With shock and blow 
They tread him in the mire. 

Then God in pain — 
"Why hast thou slain 

This prophet of my soul? 
Dost thou not know 
Thou hast struck low 

Thy seer again made whole?" 

"0 hear, dear God, 
And spare the rod!" 

The fearful people groan: 
"Lo! o'er that seer 
Dead many a year 

We reared a church of stone. 

"The truths he taught. 
The deeds he wrought, 



And Other Poems. 275 

Wf made religion of, 

And knelt we down, 

Both king and clown, 
And honored it in love. 



"And he we stoned 
To-day disowned 

That holy church and law: 
He said that we 
In darkness be; 

Our best is only flaw. 



"And this to us 

Was blasphemous; 
We stoned him! Woe the day! 

But hear, dear God, 

Spare Thou the rod, 
And give him back, we pray. 



"Give back the dead, 
The seer that 's fled. 

And we will homage do; 
Low at his feet 
We'll take our seat. 

And learn of him we slew." 



276 lone, 



TWO FRIENDS. 

Two friends I had: Both went away; 
I heard of them but yesterday. 
One journeyed east, the other, west; 
Both loved a song, both loved a jest. 
And both were quick to understand. 
Of open heart and warm of hand. 
In height about the same, in face 
Alike as brothers of one race 
Though not one common parentage. 
And equal, so I think, in age: 
Their fortunes were about the same. 
Ambitions much alike, and aim: 
And so they went away, these two. 
As friends have done and daily do. 
One journeyed west, the other, east; 
And w^hich was greater, which was least. 
In honor, manhood, heart, and head. 
Not for my soul could I have said. 
But now — why now I hear it told 
That one has bartered truth for gold. 
Uncrowned himself of honor's crown. 
Pawned all its jewels, and dashed it down, 
And without turning, where he stands 
Can touch a prison with his guilty hands ! 



And Other Poems. 277 

While he, that other friend I had. 

Has gone up liigher: made the mother glad 

That bore him, and a nation proud 

To touch his hand and name his name aloud! 



HOW SOOX A NATION CAN FORGET, 
LOED ! 



How soon a nation can forget, Lord, 

How soon forget its troubled past, and sleep 

In easy negligence, nor longer keep 
At every door and gate stern watch and ward! 
How soon a land is taken from its guard 

When plenty smiles again and bread is cheap ; 

How soon forgets it late had cause to weep. 
When spoilsmen ruled and times were bitter hard ! 
let us then remember ere too late, 

That only yesterday grim hunger's ghost 
Walked in the land and troubled all the state, 

While knaves and spoilsmen ruled from coast to 
coast. 
And shall we sleep forgetful of such fate? 

Call up the sentries ! Send them to their post ! 



27I: lone, 



THE HOURS. 

We lightly speak of killing Time, — 

't is not Time we kill; 
It is an angel in disguise 

That serves God's will. 

The Honrs — they are living things 

Not marks upon a dial. 
Tall cherubim that come and go 

In single file. 

And some are clad in sombre black, 

And some in faded gray, 
While others come in living gold 

And bright array. 

Some bear the hawthorn in their hands. 

Some bring the bitter rue; 
While others hold a red, red rose 

All bright with dew. 

They come ! No king can stay their march, 

No hand turn them aside; 
They move like stately angels, or 

Like spirits glide. 



And Other Poems. 279 

Not one is missing from his place. 

Not one but passes on; 
A little while they are with us 

And then they 're gone. 

From whence they come or whither go 

No mortal man can say. 
But by their shining brows we guess 

They Ve passed His way. 

Christ ! it were an awful thins: 

To harm the least of these. 
For they are servitors of Him 

Whom we would please. 

They are His angels in disguise, 

Bright shapes solicitous. 
And as we measure unto them 

So He to us ! 



NOTHING COMES OF IT. 

I've tried and tried and tried again. 

But nothing comes of it. 
Fve hoped and labored as few men. 

But nothing comes of it. 



280 lone, 

I've done the very best I could, 
But nothing comes of it. 

I have been faithful, as I should. 
But nothing comes of it. 



I've toiled on water and on land. 

But nothing comes of it. 
I've labored with both brain and hand. 

But nothing comes of it. 



I've risen early, late retired. 

But nothing comes of it. 
I've often done more than required. 

But nothino: comes of it. 



I've studied to improve my work, 
But nothing comes of it. 

And rarely, rarely do I shirk, 
But nothing comes of it. 



All told, I've done the work of three. 
But nothing comes of it. 

I've sweated blood, it seems to me. 
But nothing comes of it. 



And Other Poems. 281 

LIFE'S FAILURES. 

Be not so rudely harsh with us 

Though we are failures all, 
Though we have fallen in the strife 

And lower still may fall. 

What though we wear no laurel wreath 

And grasp no victor's prize, 
We still have hearts that wrong can break, 

Still tears can dim our eyes. 

Still we are feeling flesh and blood. 

Though humbled in the dust ; 
Still pray we to one kindly Judge 

And labor still, and trust. 

And Fate cannot so bar success 

But God will leave a way, 
That none may have so wholly failed 

But shall succeed — some day! 



I KNOW. I KNOW. 



I know, I know why the rose is so red, 

Why the dews like a carpet of pearl are spread. 



282 lone, 

Why the nightingale sings from the wood all 

night, 
And the moon is enthroned on a mountain of 

light! 

I know, I know why the poet is awake. 

Why the mocking-bird calls from the hawthorn 

brake^ 
Why Beauty is walking abroad to-night. 
And the east is clothed in a mystic light! 

I know, I know why the silvery fall 
Doth murmur and sigh and whisper and call. 
Why the youngest flowers are awake to-night, 
And Love's brightest arrow has sped on its flight ! 

I know, I know why the stars are all gold. 
Why the sweetest story is yet untold. 
Why the mountain pool is astir to-night, 
And heaven will not let the earth from its 
sight ! 



For Lydia, bright Lydia is coming at morn 
Back unto the castle where she was born. 
And nature is welcoming her all night 
With beauty and fragrance and music and light! 



And Other Poems. 283 



THE STORM. 

A storm is sweeping through my heart 

With lightning and with hail, 
And I am beaten to the earth 

Beneath its jagged flail. 

My soul is shaken like a tree 

And stript of all its bloom; 
Borne down before the hurricane, 

Aghast beneath the gloom. 

Wild thoughts are surging through my brain 

Like panic-stricken things ; 
Like beast and reptiles, tempest-lashed. 

And birds with blasted wings. 

I hear the nearing thunders now 

Of conscience and of fear; 
They split my guilty soul in twain 

And blast my wild career. 

The storm of God is on my head, 

His awful hurricane, 
And crushes me unto the earth 

In body, soul and brain! 



284 lone, 



Px^LMISTRY. 

What ! do I understand 

My fortune 's in my hand — 

That here is writ 

In the palm of it, 

In lines that meet and cross. 

All I shall be 

Or do or see — 

My every gain and loss: 

Life's history. 

Death's mystery; 

Each pleasure rare, 

Each deep despair. 

And all things whatsoe'er the future holds for me? 

It is a lie, 

And but for coward souls would die! 

I hold my fortune in my hand. 

But hold it there at my command : 

It rests with me 

What I shall be. 

And do and see, 

And take and leave. 

Adventure and achieve! 

I am the master of my brain and brawn 

And not necessity's ignoble spawn: 



And Other Poems. 285 

1 hold my fortune in my hand indeed 

But not in fleshy lines that human art can read ! 

Let knaves teach fools 

The folly of the palmist schools, 

And stoop their souls to shallow rules, 

No fate embalms 

My fortune in my palms 

And turns a reverseless key 

^Twixt what I am and what I'd be ! 

The future of a man is nowhere writ. 

Nor yet in whole nor part, 

And angels can but guess at it. 

To miss or hit 

By chance, not art. 

The soul is free, 

And ever was, and ever it shall be, 

And can achieve the fortune that it dare, 

And dare achieve all fortunes whatsoe'er! 



I LOVED YOU FOR YOUR BEAUTY FIRST, 

I loved you for your beauty first. 
Then loved you for your mind. 

Your gracious wealth of character. 
Your spirit pure and kind. 



286 lone, 

You have a. manner all your own 

I cannot well express, 
And sweeter than the viol is 

The music of your dress. 

You wear your learning like the rose 
That trembles in your hair, 

Where half concealed amidst your curls 
It makes you doubly fair. 

could I seal my love to-night 
Beneath the fragrant flowers. 

Then how much sweeter were my rest 
And all my waking hours! 



I WOULD NOT HURT HER LITTLE HAND. 

I would not hurt her little hand. 
But my poor heart breaks she; 

I'd die for her on sea or land 
Yet she '11 not smile for me. 

She dwells my father's fields above 

Beside the old mill-stone. 
This blue-eyed lass that I may. love 

But never call my own. 



And Other Poems. 287 

Yet though she loves another youth 

I love the maiden still, 
For love like mine, all trust and truth, 

May not be changed at will. 



ISrOT ALWAYS. 

^t is not always the golden pen 
That writes the golden thought: 

't is not always the richest men 
Whose favors most widely are sought. 

't is not always the fairest in face 
We love the longest and best: 

't is not always the first in the race 
We ask to be our guest. 

Not always our chief est thanks are his 
Who plays the chief est part: 

And the first in rank not always is 
The first within our heart. 

't is not always the king that rules; 

Not always the mighty o'ercome: 
Not always from forth the greatest schools 

The greatest scholars come. 



288 lone 



't is not always the prince or the lord 

Who plays the kingliest part: 
And 't is not always the grandest bard 

Who sings right into our heart. 

't is not always the forwardest youth 

That makes the foremost man : 
And the plan that seems all virtue and truth 

Is not always heaven's plan. 

Then let the lowly take courage from this, 

And let the exalted take care; 
Let the faint look up and their fears dismiss. 

Let the proud look round and beware. 



NOW MOEN UPON THE EOSY HILLS. 

Now morn upon the rosy hills 

Is looking o'er the valley 
Unto that cot and pleasant spot 

Where dwells my blithesome Sally. 

Her lilies are the first to wake 

And catch the sunrise-glory, 
And now unfold such hearts of gold 

As never were in story. 



And Other Poems. 289 

Her apple wakes her cheery tree. 

Her cherry wakes the clover, 
And now is heard the note of bird 

And earth knows night is over. 

To be alive and be in love 

In such a morn and season 
Is as near to heaven as shall be given 

To we of mortal reason. 



OF MANY FOOLS, I LOATHE THE MOST. 

Of many fools, I loathe the most 

That muddled, puddled oaf 
Who holds that life's realities 

Are bed and drink and loaf. 

That clod who has no place for dreams 

Among the list of needs. 
Who holds as real those things alone 

On which his belly feeds. 

To whom immortal verse is naught. 

And fine, enlightened taste; 
And beauty but an empty mist. 

And fancy's field a waste. 



290 lone, 

To whom all things are dreams save those 

That he can eat or pawn. 
Naught worthy second glance or thought 

Save what he fattens on. 

That earthly and besotted dolt 

Who takes his narrow stand, 
And blots from lifers realities 

What god-like souls demand. 

Like one in total blindness born 

Who bats his sightless eye, 
And values far above yon sun 

The stick he hobbles by. 

Souls cannot live by bread alone — 

Hunger has deeper springs; 
And beauty is a stubborn fact 

And dreams substantial things. 



KISS ME, DEAE, AND LET ^S FORGET. 

Kiss me, dear, and let 's forget 
That our eyes were ever wet; 
That our hearts were ever sad 
With a world that 's mostly bad; 
That our dreams come seldom true, 
And are nothing when they do!' 



And Other Poems. 291 

Kiss me, dear, and let 's forget 
Memory is all regret; 
All our days are empty urns 
Where the ash of promise burns: 
All our actions end in thought. 
And all thinking comes to naught! 

Kiss me, dear, and let ^s forget 
AH things save that we have met; 
Save the skies are blue above 
And we have an hour for love; 
Save our lips may meet to-day 
Come to-morrow come what may! 



THE DIVOKCEE DINNER: THE LATEST 
FAD. 

Have you heard of that dinner, that wonderful 

dinner ? 
(Yet surely you have, though a saint or a sinner!) 
'T was given of late 
In a middle-west State 
By a lady in society of perfect propriety. 
Whose fads are philanthropy, church-work and 
piety. 



292 lone, 

The fair hostess herself with her own hand indited 
The prized invitations. The mansion was lighted, 

The banquet was spread, 

The wine glistened red, 
The guests were thrice seven, the servants eleven: 
The hostess was Madam Dean-Morgan-Hill-Nevin. 

A three times divorcee, new wed in Dakota; 
(Divorced in Ohio, New York, Minnesota!) 
The guests at her board 
Were her new-wedded lord. 
Her three faithful lawyers — Burke, Wilson and 

Sawyers — 
Who won her divorces; forensic old warriors. 

While seated between were the honorable judges 
Who granted her freedom (which no man be- 
grudges!) 

And gave her respite 
From marital delight, 
And made her lords pony up good alimony. 
(Ah, judges have hearts though their office is 
stony !) 

Still further along at the banquet were seated 
Her three divorced husbands; now royally feted: 

While sleek and serene 

Right plain to be seen 



And Other Poems. 293 

Were the four reverend pastors (though pious, no. 

tasters ! ) 
Who wedded their hostess to marital disaslcis. 

On the left, with their morals loose-fitting as 

blouses, 
Were the three divorced wives of her three divorced 
spouses ; 

While down at the foot 
Of the table were put 
Two sons and a daughter that marriage had 

brought her: 
Too youthful to sip of the wine without water. 

And last, but not least — t'other end of the table — 
Was seated her lover (a fact and no fable!) 

The man she would wed 

Ere the old year was dead 
And divorce in the summer to wed a new-comer — 
A coachman or bishop, a lawyer or plumber. 

And this is the dinner, the dinner-divorcee, 
With a touch aristocratic and a touch that is 
horsey, 

Which the newspapers print 

For all that is in 't; 
The dinner select and the dinner correct, 
The dinner which every good wife should affect. 



294 lone, 



LINES. 

A cat lay dying in the gutter, and 

A little child was staring at it there: 
The child drew nearer and with stick in hand 

Poked at the creature, ruffling its dank hair; 
Then, drawing nearer still, with baby feet 

Trod on the moaning beast, and laughed to hear 
The thing complaining, like a toy that 
squeaks 
When pressed in the middle. A butcher's boy, 
with meat 

And basket, loitering on his way, drew near 
And watched the baby with the rosy cheeks. 
Moist yet with mother kisses, take a stick 

And poke the creature's eyes out — one was 
blind ; 
Laughing with baby glee. Then with a brick. 

The largest and the roughest he could find 
After some moments' search, the butcher's boy 
Drove at the creature, shouting as with joy: 
Then, taking up the brick, hurled it again. 

And once again — the cat not yet quite dead; 
Then, whistling shrilly, went upon his way — 
The little child looked after him and then 

Plucked off his bonnet from his curly head 
And singing to himself returned to play. 



And Other Poems. 295 

GHOST, I HAVE THEE NOW. 

say, thou foolish, fond and bow-legged ghost, 

Since thou hast shuffled off the "mortal coil," 
Why dost thou daily haunt this distant coast 

Called Earth— this scene of former strife and 
toil. 
And fright we mortals with thy spectral shape, 

Thy chuckling laugh, and legs that seem to 
yawn 
As if aweary? 'Neath thine ancient cape 

What loves contend ? What passions still live on ? 

Oft have I met thee in our cellar-room 

Hard by the cider keg. With pensive brow 

Thou seemed but a deeper shadow in the gloom. 
And She was there! 0, ghost, I have thee 
now — 

Thou lovest that freckled red-haired lass of suds 

Who weekly wasJies for us, and then scuds! 



THE PEN. 



You may talk of the power of electricity. 
That great science yet in its great youth; 

But the PEN" is the lever that moves this old 
earth 
And the fulcrum it rests on is truth. 



296 lone, 

And good steam is a puissance not to be scorned, 
And bright fire is the father of force; 

But the PEN" in the hand of a scholar or bard 
Can move this old world from its course. 

You may talk of the power of powder and shell. 
And of rifle and mortar and gun; 

But the battles achieved by the might of the PEN" 
Are the only battles that are won. 

For who conquer by powder, by steel, or by fire 

Must conquer again and again. 
But they conquer forever who conquer but once 

By the might of the almighty PEN. 



IF GENIUS WERE BUT CATCHING. 

If genius were but catching, sweet, 

I'd catch the poet's malady, 
And wake some splendid burst of song 

And dedicate it unto thee. 

If riches were contagious, dear, 
I'd take the rich man by the hand, 

Then thou couldst dwell in crystal halls 
And be a ladv of the land. 



And Other Poems. 297 

If glory were infectious, love, 
rd go where glory brightest be, 

Then millions would applaud my name. 
And I — I'd give that name to thee. 



A LITTLE PEOPLE. 

A little People o'er the sea 

Have known themselves a year. 

Have known themselves and will be free 
To shape their own career. 

The flower of liberty has sprung 

On plain and hill and slope; 
The dome of heaven has been hung 

With a new star of hope. 

The iron within their poets' blood 
Has met war's two-edged flint: 

The forehead of their young manhood 
Has ta'en a new imprint. 

They've cast their lead in sterner mold 

That similitudes of kings: 
They've found that commerce for their gold 

From which a Nation springs. 



298 lone, 

They battle for their living faith — 
What land has fought for more? 

They snatch a glory from stern death, 
They sink, but not implore. 

They bind the tyrant's hands abhor'd 

And his fierce spirit awe; 
They go forth with a two-edged sword, 

Returning with the law ! 



TIRED ! 



Fm tired, tired, tired. 
Too tired to creep: 

I'm tired, dead tired. 
Too tired to sleep. 

I'm tired, tired, tired. 
Tired unto death: 

Too tired almost 
To draw my breath. 

I'm tired, sick-tired, 
Tired of it all: 

Too tired to stand, 
Too tired to crawl. 



And Other Poems. 299 

I'm tired, tired, tired, 

Dead tired; fagged out: 
Too tired to know 

What it 's all about. 



My heart is tired. 
And my poor head: 

And I'm too tired 
To creep in bed. 

I'm tired, tired, tired. 
Too tired to sigh; 

Too tired to live. 
Too tired to die. 

Tired, tired, dead tired; 

Old, tired, and gray: 
Too tired to rest. 

Too tired to pray! 



SHE IS A POEM ! 

she is a poem that angels have pen'd, 
A poem of love without surfeit or end; 
A poem forever delightful and new. 
Eternal, supernal, and rounded and true! 



300 lone, 

she is a verse from the song of the spheres, 
A rhyme from the joy of the ultimate years; 
A madrigal sung in bright paradise, 
A pulse of the paeans that balance the skies ! 

she is a song and awakeneth song; 
A lyric that echoing poets prolong: 
In music's anthology sweetest of all, 
Awaking and. taking each heart in her thrall! 

maid with the large and luminous eyes. 
You answer the Splnnx's immemorial whys, 
You ansAver the riddle of life with your smile — 
And, lo, I have come to your palm-fronded isle ! 



ADELIISTE. 



The miracle oi flowers is undone, 

The bobolink hath sought a brighter clime, 
Dim clouds are driven o'er the darkened sun 
And gusty winds bring in the winter time : 
Big drops of rahi are falling in the land 
Drowning the meadows, where no fold is seen; 
Leafless and cold against the barren moor 
A single ash hath ta'en it? blasted stand: 
Hath faded from the lake a day serene, 

A glory gone from heaven, a light passed 
from the shore ! 



And Other Poems. 301 

Beneath yon yew tree's shade, where no birds sing. 

In linen scarf and faded mantle wound, 
My Love hath slept since autumn's golden spring. 
The earth high-piled above her dreamless swound; 
My Adeline hath slept a dreamless sleep 

Nor knows the golden rod hath come and gone, 
Nor knows the orchis lingered for her sake. 
To perish only on the winter's steep; 
My Adeline hath slept in death alone, 

The bride hath slept the sleep the bridegroom 
cannot break ! 

Above her head the morning rose shall blow, 
The stately asphodel shall spring and wave, 
The flower of winter star the sheeted snow 
Tender and passionless upon her grave; 
But in their beauty she shall not delight 
Nor turn aside to gather them at mom; 

She sleepeth now beneath the drooping yew 
And hath no smiles sweet buds make doubly bright,. 
No youth the stately lily may adorn. 

No golden hair to bind with roses wet with 
dew. 

She came with summer like this morning rose 
I plucked upon my casement, sweet and lone; 

She passed with summer, at one twilight's close, 
Like petals that around my feet are strown. 



302 lone, 

Her death was as a golden fountain stopt 
Upon a sudden in a morn of May 

When birds sing sweetest ^round its crystal 
well. 
Or as a fragrant rose whose stem is lopt 
Holding an hour of bloom e'en in decay. 
The dew upon its leaves but death within each 
cell. 

While summer still was in the dream and gold, 

And winged odors stirred the citron glen 
My Love drew nearer, while I softly told 

A story older than the poet's pen, 
The story primal of the primal pair. 
Forever new and oh forever dear! 
When lo ! we heard a spirit footstep fall, 
A fearful summons from the viewless air. 
And Azrael rose in the twilight clear 

And led my Love away toward Death's cham- 
ber hall ! 



A NEW PLEASURE. 

*^0 for a new pleasure," the weary king sighed, 

"A pleasure untasted before!" 
And he turned from the revelers reveling wide 

And passed through the golden-hung door. 



And Other Poems. 303 

'^0 for a new pleasure; a novel delight; 

A joy and a gladness unstaled ! 
Whoso shall discover it him I will knight, 

For the pleasures of life have all failed." 

The master of revels was there at the feast, 

And heard the desire of his lord. 
A greater magician ne'er came out the East, 

And he thought of that master's award. 

Up rose the magician and followed the king, 

On hastened the king to the sea. 
Where he envied the curlew his swift-flying wing 

And sighed for the fisherboy's glee. 

And envying and sighing sate down on the shore 
And looked on the bird and the boy. 

And, looking, he marvelled the more and the more 
Whence came their pure spirit of joy. 

Then a voice at his side and a presence recalled 
The wandering thoughts of the king. 

And spoke the magician — "Since pleasure has 
palled. 
And shattered is joy's sweetest string, 

"Learn you of the curlew who wingeth the shore, 

And learn of yon fisherman's boy 
This truth that has power to make the world o'er — 

A new heart is the only new joy. 



304 lone, 

"You who seek a .new pleasure, go find a new heart 
That labors in meekness and love, 

Then pleasures as many and perfect will start 
As stars from the heavens above !'' 



OUT OF MY BRAITsT THE MUSIC HAS FLED. 

Out of my brain the music has fled 

And out of my life the dream; 
The poet in me is cold and dead. 

And beauty no longer supreme. 

Gone is the heart that leapt up in me 

At the magical name of song; 
Gone is the charm of melody. 

Ay. gone these seasons long. 

Like a spirit I moved in a spirit land 
And nothing was common to me — 

The sound of a voice or touch of a hand 
Could shake me with ecstasy. 

But the wonder has passed like a dream of night, 

never to come again, 
And the world grows stale, and common, and trite. 

And I the dullest of men. 



And Other Poems. 305 

The fame of a poet was nothing to me 

But to feel as a poet was all; 
I asked not the guerdon of melody 

But to live in the poet's high thrall. 



THERE ARE MORE WAYS OF PLEASING 
GOD THAN ONE ! 

There are more ways of pleasing God than one! 

More ways than building up His church for 
Him, 

And kneeling there beneath stained windows 
dim 
And praying to the Father through the Son. 
The world is His, and all that 's kindly done. 

Or nobly undertaken, is to Him 

As dear as labor of those hands that trim 
His altar candles at the set of sun. 

He loves the merchant not less than the priest. 
He loves the maiden dearly as the nun; 

Blesses alike the home and church's feast. 
And hath indeed in love no favorite one; 

Oft prospering most what serves His church the 
least, 
For all that 's kindly done is godly done. 



3o6 lone, 



YOUR BEAUTY LEFT ME MARVELING. 

Your beauty left me marveling, 

Your coldness left me grieved: 
That one so fair could be so distant 

I would not have believed. 

Perhaps they warned you I am poor. 

The poorest of brave men; 
But Fortune's wheel has turned before 

And it may turn again ! 

True love like mine has lifted some 

Unto a kingly throne. 
And the doors to-night they turn me from 

To-morrow may be my own! 



CLARA O'DEE. 

One rose in your hair 
Makes summer for me, 

rare, sweet Clare, 
Clara O'Dee! 



And Other Poems. 307 

One smile from your lips 

Brings back the lost June 
With the tuberose scent 

And the oriole's tune ! 

I pass the wine cup 

And touch but your glove, 
And my soul is caught up 

In the white arms of Love! 

Ah ! the paths that lead 

To p^irarli^^e sweet, 
I'd leave for the lane 

That runs to your feet ! 



MY SWEET THOUGHTS ARE MY 
DAUGHTERS. 

My sweet thoughts are my daughters, 
My brave thoughts are my sons: 

Such are the poet's children 
And oft his only ones. 

I love them for their mother, 

Their mother who is Song: 
She 's all the bride I've taken 

And ah, I've loved her long. 



3o8 lone, 

Her hair is more than golden, 
And never shall be gray : 

She came to me in beauty 
And shall be young alway. 



We dwell within a palace, 

A palace of high faith, 
Where sweet pipes play forever, 

And charms the passion wraith. 



Yet sometimes I am haunted 
By a mortal maiden's face, 

A countenance all beauty 
A look all youth and grace. 



And though to Song I'm wedded 
And love her very much, 

I hunger for the human, 
I crave the human touch. 



I feel the icy coldness 
Of her, my spirit bride, 

And long to clasp the maiden 
That lauQ^heth at my side. 



And Other Poems. 309 



TO TRADE. 

To trade: for a little baby's smile 
And the touch of a baby's hand, 

A lady's diamond pointed pen 
And stock with golden band. 

To trade: a silver inkwell, chased. 

And a gold-bound blotting-pad, 
For the uncertain sound of two little feet 

In softest moccasins clad. 

To trade: a lady's writing desk 

And paper — seven reams, 
For the joy that comes to a mother 

When her babe first smiles in its dreams. 

To trade: a dictionary of rhymes 

And Roget's Thesaurus, 
For a baby's mouth at my breast 

And a love idolatrous. 

To trade: the thousand thoughts and fancies 

That haunt a poetess' brain, 
For the one pure thought of a mother 

For her little babe in pain. 



3IO lone, 

To trade: a name in the magazines, 
And a name in a book or two, 

For my face cauglit up and reflected 
In a baby's eyes of blue. 



THE ROSE THAT BLOOMED IN EDEN 
BLOOMS TO-DAY. 

The rose that bloomed in Eden blooms to-day, 
The nightingale that shut the primal eyes 
To slumber and to dreams in Paradise 

Still sings at even mid the bloomy spray: 

The sun shines down with as elysian ray 
As ever in that golden time; the skies 
Are not less purple; and yon heaven lies 

No jot or league more distantly away. 

It is our heart and not the world that 's changed. 
It is the heart — the world is Eden still: 

It is the spirit from its God estranged. 
No change of wood or brook, or vale or hill. 

Still are we living in bright Paradise, 

Still, still in Eden 'neath edenic skies. 



And Other Poems. 311 

GCNE, ONE MORE FAITHFUL FRIEND. 

Our old clock died this morning. 

Our beautiful old friend: 
Death came without a warning 

And no one saw the end. 

We woke — to miss his greeting ; 

We looked — to find him dead; 
His heart no longer beating, 

Death's angel at his head. 

At first we thought him sleeping 
With tired hands folded o'er. 

But ah ! his heart was keeping 
The sleep that wakes no more. 

He took the silent hours 

And rung them like sweet chimes. 
And come sunshine or showers. 

His ways were true all-times. 

When our little son lay dying 

And we thought 0' the cold, cold sod, 

His faithful hands were trying 
To point right up to God. 

Gone — one my verse shall hallow; 

Gone — one more faithful friend : 
Gone — and when I shall follow 

As peaceful be my end. 



312 lone, 



SHE HAS HEE FAULTS LIKE OTHER 
MAIDS. 

She has her faults like other maids. 

Her foibles and her failings; 
Her beauty has its little aids, 

Her temper has its ailings. 

She is not perfect, as I grant. 
And, as I guess, quite mortal; 

And neither learned nor ignorant 
To that extent to startle. 

Not always wrong, not always right; 

A loved and loving human 
Whom poets call an angel bright. 

Philosophy, a woman. 

Somewhere may be another maid 
That artist might call fairer. 

Whose hair is of a brighter shade. 
Whose eyes and lips are rarer. 

But nowhere is another lass 

Whose love is all her dowry. 
Can bring my heart to such a pass 

As lovely Laura Lourie. 



And Other Poems. 313 



IGNORANCE. 

There's bigger game than bison, 
Than moose, or wolf, or bear. 

And though not seen by vision 
^T is met with everywhere. 

'T is fiercer than the tiger, 

Or than the crocodile, 
Than beasts that stalk the Niger, 

Or shapes that haunt the Nile. 

It preys upon no dumb thing, 
Nor hind, nor hart, nor foal; 

It is a fearful Something 

That stalks the human soul. 

The scholar and the teacher. 
The scientist and the bard. 

They hunt this hellish creature 
And hunt him fast and hard. 

They drive him far and farther 
From human residence, 

For lo! he is no other 
Than bestial Ignorance. 



314 lone, 

And greater than great Nimrod 
That hunter-king of old. 

Or those that after him trod 
In emulation bold, 

Is he, that dauntless spirit 

Who hunts this brutish thing- 
May he such fame inherit 
As only brave deeds bring. 



MY LIFE WAS A ROUND OF GOLDEN 
DAYS. 

My life was a round of golden days 
When thou wast near me, Lucy; 

But now I walk i i darkened ways 
With naught to cheer me, Lucy. 

My laugh is not the laugh of youth; 

Its sound doth pain me, Lucy: 
For distance is a serpent's tooth 

And it hath slain me, Lucy. 

My heart was a nest of singing birds 
When I first kissed thee, Lucy ; 

But now — alas ! I have no words 
To tell how I've missed thee, Lucy. 



And Other Poems. 315 

My dreams are not the dreams that were 
When thou wast near me, Lucy; 

Dark shapes about me move and stir, 
And shadows jeer me, Lucy. 

My days were sweet as summer flowers 

That strew the heather, Lucy; 
In those old times, those happy hours 

When we dwelt together, Lucy. 

But now I scarce dare think of then: 

And the thought should start us, Lucy, 

That ere our lips shall meet again 
Death^s hand may part us, Lucy! 



GONE IS A STRENUOUS SPIRIT. 

Out of the shadow of nature 

Unto the glory of death. 
Gone is a strenuous spirit. 

Resigning a worker's breath 

Not as a reaper but sower 

Into the body he came — 
Harvests there were to be planted 

To reap ere he sowed was shame. 



3i6 lone, 

Loved less the , harvest than furrow, 
Loved less the rose than the seed; 

His was the hand of a planter — 
Let others still reap the meed. 



Knew that our doings abideth — 
States cannot live by a name; 

Gave all his days to great action 
And not one brief hour to fame. 



Never, in fear of an error, 
Did he step over the truth — 

Heard the full summons of spirit 

And wrought with the faith of youth. 



Held that chief truth of our finding- 
That the wide world is as deep 

As we shall judge it in spirit. 
And as we so judge we reap. 



Left his pure footsteps to guide us 
In the high places of truth; 

Left his great faith to the weary 
And unto the old his youth. 



And Other Poems. 317 



WHAT THOUGH THE GARDEN OF THE 
MUSES YIELD? 

What though the garden of the Muses yield 
But one sweet flower to my hand each day ? 

Contented, come I from the bloomy field 
And at thy feet that single flower lay. 

Rich in the treasure of that only bloom, 
But richer in the thought that 't is for thee; 

For not, indeed, the flower but for whom 
The flower is gathered most enriches me. 

Then take this single blossom of my rhyme. 
This everlasting of a poet's mind, 

And make it doubly precious for all time. 

Thrice precious by acceptance more than kind. 

Take these, the single flowers of my song. 
And day to day my toil shall add to them 

Until they grow to be — 't will not be long— 
A wreath, a garland and a diadem. 

A chaplet sweet to crown thee queen of love, 
Thou lovely spirit with thy human mouth. 

Thou blue-eyed maiden precious far above 
All sister-spirits of thy shining south. 



3i8 lone, 



POET, OPEN WIDE THE GATE OF 
DREAMS. 

Poet, open wide the gate of dreams 
And let our care-worn spirits in to rest; 

Throw wide the hinges of the gates of Song 
And none so poor but will be Beauty's guest. 

Our hearts are cankered with the canker gold. 
The World beats on us like a tropic sun; 

Almost we have forgotten Beauty's name. 
So fierce we slave, so fast the race is run. 

Throw wide the everlasting gates of Song, 

(So heaven's gates by seraphs are thrown 
wide!) 

And like young angCis we shall enter in 

And with great truths, as with the gods, abide. 

flush our hearts with the Pierian spring, 
bathe us in the bright Aonian flood; 

reach from out the dream and draw us back 
That music heal this fever in our blood. 

Builder of the Dream that is no dream 
Worker in the spirit stuff of thought, 

O Poet, open wide the gates of Song — 

We flee from Mammon, and would not be 
caught ! 



And Other Poems. 319 

give us shelter from the world's alarms; 

Show us again in heaven Beauty's bow; 
Lead us into the silences of God, 

And crown us with a faith lost long ago. 



PHOEBE. 



Thou pleasant land of brooks and leaf-fringed 
streams. 
Thou Arcady of citron and of vine. 
Untroubled vale, where aye bright Summer 
dreams 
Lulled in the coil of dewy eglantine, 
What conscious spirit, by winged airs entranced, 
Her breast soft-heaving with its burdened 
musk. 
Enamoured sleeps midst yonder depth of 
thorn 
Where never mortal nor yet spirit chanced. 
Saving perhaps with golden rain or dusk 
Some faery hasting by with silent horn? 

She sleeps a spirit's sleep on rose-bloom prest. 
Her hair half-loosened from a fragrant wreath ; 

One white, soft-tapering hand upon her breast, 
The other hid her crooked curls beneath. 



320 lone, 

Upon her body is a splendid light, 

A glory like around the summer moon 
That sleeps upon the lakes of Thessaly; 
Her watchers are the golden stars of night, 
And, hanging with the lily o'er her swoon, 
The nightingale pours forth its melody. 

She sleeps a spirit's sleep, rose-bloom above, 

O'erwoofed with oxlip and musk roses dear. 
And dreams a spirit's dream, soft breathing love 

Which only the rapt nightingale may hear. 
Immortal bird ! Sweet-throated interpreter ! 

Thy music is the cadence of her dream, 
A dream prophetic of the golden morn — 
Bright vision that the hours will not blur 

Into forgetfulness, nor orient beam 

Dissolve away and leave her all forlorn! 

She dreams of him long-seeking her through pain. 

Only to meet in dreams of summer night. 
Meet and embrace, embrace and part again 

Like guilty things in the hierarchy's sight. 
Of young Endymion she dreams — of him! 

For she is Phoebe, his immortal love ! 
'T is evening ; they have met in Thessaly, 
And in her dream she plucks the lily dim 

That hangs her shut and sleeping eyes above 
And lays it on her breast where he will see. 



And Other Poems. 321 

Love's dreams are sweet, but sweeter is love's 
waking. 
Aye clasped in embrace to the other's heart! 
then awake — thy waking hath no sting ! 

Awake, bright Spirit — nor thy dreams depart! 
Not o'er the threshold of thy dreams alone 
Endymion comes, but o'er the threshold too 
Of thy lush bower thatched with tender 
shoot ; 
Not only in thy dreams the Fates atone 
But in thy waking also! — O'er the dew 
Endymion comes, and Philomel is mute! 



AN" EVIL BOOK. 

There is no evil like an evil book, 

And no infection half so quickly spread. 
Since such has power to strike the conscience 
dead 

And rot the spirit, ere the flesh is shook. 

Such evil tomes are each a golden hook 

That, shining, snares and, snaring, lets not go 
Until the devil has the soul in tow. 

Jerked like a grayling from its native brook! 



322 lone, 

In writing then write holily or quit; 

And every page for honor's sake left blank 
Will shine in heaven with a splendid wit. 

And angels and not men shall give you rank 
But whensoe'er an evil line is writ 

Hell has another scribbling fool to thank! 



LAKE TAHOE. 

Beauty walks by Lake Tahoe — 
Her path is through the pine; 

And Grandeur from eternal snow 
Aye looketh down divine. 

Here Solitude and Silence meet 

In their unbroken love; 
And day completes the earth beneath 

And night the skies above. 

Tall golden splendors bloom and shake 

Where limpid waters lie, 
And heaven's face glows in the lake 

As in a conscious eye. 

While from the hanging walls above 
The stately pine looks down. 

Aye carpeting the dewy earth 
With needles smooth and brown. 



And Other Poems. 323 



A PRELUDE. 

I sing of Romance and the South, 

Of meads that lovers' feet have prest; 
A river flowing to the west 

With sunset islands at its mouth. 

I sing of beauty and of light. 

Of truth and honor not in vain — 
The love that lifts me shall sustain. 

The grace that wins me shall invite. 

Of love amid a pleasant seat. 

And of that pleasant seat I sing; 
Though nothing new to song I bring 

Save this new heart with love complete. 

The golden Springtime needs be here 
Ere I've attained my middle flight: 
may the Spring's propitious light 

Be ripened with my full career. 

That from my labors I arise 

And with the Springtime bid adieu, 
To feel that I have flowered too. 

And left a sweetness in the skies. 



324 lone, 



WHEN I CONSIDER. 

When I consider how the smallest thing 
Can make or mar our human life divine : 
How nothing is so trifling, frail, or fine, 
But has the power, like a tyrant king. 
To lift our feet to honor, or to bring 
Our life to nothing and to hell consign 
Our fondest hopes — how trifles still combine — 
Mere trifles — to o'ermaster every spring 
Of human action ! When I think of this, 

And look about and stern example see 
On heaven's summit or in hell's abyss 

Of the power of trifles, then to Destiny, 
To fixed Fate I turn, and hold as flaw 
Free Will which leaves our fate to hang upon a 
straw. 



WAR! 

War! War! War! 
Bring forth the iron car. 
The cimeter and blade, 
The cannon and grenade, 
Mortar, rifle, sword and dirk, 
Christian armament, or Turk 



And Other Poems. 325 

Powder, shot and shell. 
Shrapnel as well : 
Bring forth the bayonet 
And let the blade be set; 
Cartridge, bomb, and ball, 
Ordnance great and small. 
Then light the brand that lies at hand 
And with War's bloody carnage sweep the troubled 
land! 

War! War! War! 

War and blood ! blood and war ! 

War anear and war afar! 

Death in every form and shape, 

Eack and ruin, murder, rape! 

Days of sorrow, 

Nights of horror. 

Bloody fields with corpses strewn 

Smoking 'neath the torrid noon 

Glistening ghastly in the pale light of the moon ! 

War! War! War! 

Foreign war! internal war! 

War at home and war abroad. 

War for lucre, war for fraud ! 

Ambition's war. 

Sedition's war. 

War in the name of Almighty God ! 



326 lone, 

War and, carnage, war and massacre, 
War, the bloody-handed murderer. 
War for every day on the calendar! 
War! War! Christian war! 

War! War! War! 

Headlong, raging war. 

Red-handed, rav'ning war. 

Shuddering, revolting war, 

Horrid wounds and ghastly accidents; 

Brutish force and devilish intents! 

Spitted babes and gutted sires. 

Matrons roasted in circumfluent fires! 

War and conflagration. 

War and desolation! 

War on land and war on sea, 

War where'er two brothers be — 

War! War! Christian war! 



WILL-HE NILL-HE. 

Fve cast my heart beneath her feet, 
I've cast my fortune after: 

No other lass has lips so sweet. 
No other lass such laughter. 



And Other Poems. 327 

Her eyes are heaven's baby stars, 

Her lips are love's fresh fountains; 

For her I'd tilt a lance on Mars 
Or scale the moon's cold mountains. 

I grant my love may foolish seem, 

My actions well nigh silly; 
But my poor heart has found his dream 

And loves her, will he nill he. 



IF! 

If love were but a home, dear. 

And kisses wine and cake. 
Then we would never roam, dear. 

Nor fear sharp hunger's ache. 

If simple faith were gold, dear. 

And true hearts silver were. 
Then we would laugh at cold, dear. 

And dress in silks and fur. 

If father love were a tree, dear. 

And mother love a toy. 
Then Christmas would bring glee, dear. 

Unto our little boy. 



328 lone, 

But love is only love, clear. 

And kisses but love's way; 
And though we've a home above, dear, 

We 're shelterless to-day. 

And simple faith is much, dear, 
And faithful hearts are more. 

But they are graces such, dear. 
As cannot clothe the poor. 

And father love will cleave, dear. 

And mother love be true. 
But oh this Christmas eve, dear. 

To fill Tim's little shoe! 



THE SOi^G THAT LIVES FOE AYE. 

'T is not the polished phrase that makes 

The song that lives for aye; 
Nor perfect rhymes a poem are, 

Nor measured beat a lay. 

Though every rune should have its rhythm 

And formal, studied scheme. 
Each rounded, living poem must have 

Its consecrated dream. 



And Other Poems. 329 

The stately lines of poetry 

Are broad, bright avenues 
Down whose far vistas, like a god, 

The poet's spirit moves. 

And though these stately lines be set 

With all the gems of art, 
Unless the spirit moveth there 

They have of life no part. 



I LOVE MY COUNTRY NOT THE LESS, 
DEAR FRIENDS. 

I love my country not the less, dear friends, 
But ah ! I love humanity the more : 

I would not see my country gain her ends 
By means which leave the other nations poor. 

"My country, right or wrong," is not my creed: 
Where honor ends there ends my country too: 

Truth's cause is dearer than my country's need, 
Love's banner higher than the Red-white-blue. 

Too much I love my country and her call 

To fight her battles when she lists with hell: 

And he who to his soul is false at all 
Is false unto his fatherland as well. 



330 lone, 

Thrice dear my country or in peace or war; 

Thrice dear yon starry banner waving o'er, 
But let this truth be blazoned on each bar — 

I owe my country much, but owe God more ! 



I THINK: I KNOW. 

I think the hills were made for her, 
And half the vales between: 

I know the trees cast shade for her, 
And all the land is green. 

I think the rose is red for her. 
New washed in morning dew: 

I know the fields are spread for her 
With buds of lovely hue. 

I think that song was bom for her. 

The hills of joy among: 
I know that naught has scorn for her. 

Or heart, or eye, or tongue. 

I think the heavens glow for her. 

And set their golden bow; 
I Imow the rivers flow for her. 

And sparkle as they flow. 



And Other Poems. 331 

Ah, yes! the blossoms burst for her 

On hedge and vine and tree; 
And every joy was first for her 

And then, oh then for me. 

I think the stars look down for her 

And shed their golden light; 
And summer wears a crown for her. 

And winter takes its flight. 

I know the days are long for her. 

The skies are blue above; 
The birds were given song for her. 

And youth was given love. 

I think the sun doth shine for her, 

For her sweet sake alone; 
And life was made divine for her. 

My Marian! my own! 



SING ME A SONG OF MY NATIVE LAND. 

sing me a song of my native land. 
In the dear old American tongue; 

sing me a song of Columbia, 
The sweetest song ever sung. 



332 lone, 

sing me a song of the Stars and Stripes, 

sing me a song of the West, 

And take me back in my dreams again 
To the land I love the best. 

for an hour of the life I lived 

In God's own beautiful land; 
The home of the true, the home of the brave, 

Where Freedom forever shall stand! 

Ten thousand miles from America, 
Ten thousand miles from home! 
And were I back in my own country 

1 never more would roam. 



THE LOYIXG COUPLE. 

Look here upon this husband, 
And here upon this wife. 

Where they, in rhyme and reason, 
Are painted to the life. 

He married for that jewel — 

Respectability, 
(Sure marriage is a blessing — 

And the height of policy!) 



And Other Poems. 333 

And happily he got it, 

As any friend can tell. 
For marriage with the lady 

Made her respectable. 

In winning her in marriage 

He lost his only friend, 
For soon as she was wedded 

Her friendship reached its end. 

In wedding with her husband 

She found a lover dear; 
But 't was not in her husband 

Let it be stated here. 

He acts a shameful evil. 

And she — she points it out: 
He has, indeed, no honor, 

And this she does not doubt. 

He is not wholly happy 

Until he plays the fool. 
Nor she is e'er contented 

Until at scandal's school. 

He swears she 's vain and foolish. 
Tricked out in silk for show; 

She swears — before her children — 
Her husband made her so. 



334 lone, 

There 're two sides to each question. 
And why?— 't is plain as life — 

One side is for the husband. 
The other for the wife. 

Were he to swear the noonday 

Was luminous or bright, 
She'd have the heavens darkened 

To prove he was not right. 

To prove her wrong in judgment 
He'd prove himself a fool; 

Eat fire for disagreement 
And swear that it was cool. 

Yet both, indeed, are happy 

As ever day was long — 
And each can prove the other 

Has lately been in the wrong. 

And, sure, they have religion 
But still to breed dispute — 

Learned in their creeds and doctrines 
To be in quarrels acute. 

They '11 never move together 

An hour in one course 
Until they move together 

For divorce. 



And Other Poems. 335 



WOMAN. 

a man am a human. 
But a woman am a woman; 
An^ dat am certainly true. 

An' when de debil made sin, 
He chucked a woman in, 

So what am a feller gwine to do? 



COLUMBIA. 



As a river floweth downward 
From the mountains to the sea, 

my Country, so each nation 
Floweth ever unto thee. 

As the ocean melts in vapor 
That descends in gentle rain, 

my Countr}^, so thy bounty 
Nourishes the furtherest plain. 

Like the ocean thou receivest. 
Like the ocean render back — 

Troubled waters flowing to thee 
Changed to golden, sun-kist rack. 



33(> lone, 

Much receiving, more returning; 

Like the ocean, world-begot: 
Changing all that empties in thee. 

But thine ov;n self changing not. 

All the stars are in thy bosom 
And all lands lead down to thee: 

Turns the bondman to thy shore 
As turns the sailor to the sea. 

Like the ocean, svv^iycd by heaven; 

Like the ocean, pure and deep;. 
With the ocean's stored thunders 

And the ocean's splendid sweep. 

Golden years shall beat upon thee 
As the stars beat on the sea, 

Kindling it with golden splendors 
Streaming from infinity. 

In the beauty of thy presence 
Like the beauty of the sea, 

Stately thoughts and noble passions 
Ever keep us company. 

Columbia ! my Countr}' ! 

Fair art thou and beautiful 
As yon evening sea, blue-heaving, 

Giory-kist, star-sown, illimitable ! 



And Other Poems. 237 



THE OTHER HALF. 

In wretchedness of body and of mind 
Live half the wretched sum of humankind; 
In ghastly poverty of blood and soul. 
Oblivion their hope and death their goal ! 
Their birthright stolen in their mother's womb, 
Their hopes betrayed and damned this side the 

tomb ; 
The smile of God aye turned away from them 
As if He, too, their spirits did condemn: 
Puppets of Mammon, slaves of blackest chance, 
Disease and crime their sure inheritance! 
They live (0 God in heaven, how they live!) 
Like souls foredoomed to hell, yet fugitive 
A little season here upon this earth 
To swell Gehenna's lists with other birth 
Wretched as they, as lost to heaven's light. 
As sunken in bestiality and night! 
Like brutes they toil, like brutes rewarded are 
With cliain and lash, and galling yoke, and 

scar ; 
Wliile at each farrow's end a grave doth gape 
^Vliich, if they could, they scarcely would 

escape ! 
From sea to sea, from spanning zone to zone 
The poor grow poorer still : ah ! not alone 



338 lone, 

In fortune, but in faith ajid hope as well; 
Hope for that blessed time when each shall dwell 
Beneath his owai vine in some goodly land 
With Peace above and Joy on either hand! 
The rich grow richer, not alone in gold 
But pride and power! All that they behold 
They covet; laying hands upon the dream 
Of poets — hands whose touches base blaspheme: 
Placing their seals upon the seeds of time; 
Possessing all things of all growth and clime! 
Eicher they grow, still adding more to more. 
And more to more^ till God himself seems poor ! 



DON THY KERCHIEF. 

don thy kerchief, sweetheart mine, 

And don thy hood of lace. 
And come to me 'neath the lemon tree, 

Our lovely trysting-place. 

mark how swiftly time doth fly 

And haste without delay: 
Sweet looks like thine and a heart like mine 

May not be young alway. 



And Other Poems. 339 



BIG GAME. 

Don't talk to me of panther, 
Or moose, or grizzly bear; 

There 's bigger game than either 
And plenty everywhere. 

I hunted it last season 

And bagged it every day — 

I know what I am saying. 

And, h — 1, I '11 have my say! 

It isn't tiger, either, 

Nor elephant, nor whale; 

While, as for alligators, 

They 're only so much quail. 

'T is bigger game than ever 
Old Nimrod's shade will stalk: 

This game of which I'm talking. 
Why, h — 1, it too can talk! 

It sort of rhymes with trigger — 
You '11 surely guess by that — 

This game — why, it is nigger. 
And wears a shirt and hat! 



340 lone, 

Don't talk of killing tigers 
Nor brag about the same; 

If you've never bagged a nigger 
You don't know what 's big game. 

I like to pot 'em settin' 

A-high upon a roof. 
And watch 'em come a-tumblin' 

To earth head-over hoof. 

They squeal to beat a rabbit; 

But when the nigger 's dead 
You feel you've potted something 

And not been wasting lead! 



A STATISTICAL POEM. 

Suppose there be (just for argument's sake) 

A billion of people on earth — 
A probable thing, and a reasonable thing. 

And neither redundance nor dearth. 

And suppose each body should live thirty years, 
Each woman, each child, and each man — 

The av'rage of life as statistics will tell 
As well as statistics well can. 



And Other Poems. 341 

And suppose each body should once in his life. 
Just once, and no more and no less. 

Do something that 's wicked — say perjure or steal, 
Or drink of the cup to excess. 

Now figure that out: you will find it will come 

To ninety-nine thousand per day, 
To ninety-nine thousand offences per diem — 

'T is more than enough, you will say. 

And ninety-nine thousand offences per diem 

Makes sixty-nine every minute: 
A crime for each second ticked off by the clock — 

Good Lord, but the devil is in it! 

But now to my moral as quick as a trice, 
Or quick as my meter will let me; 

And should I not prove what I set out to prove 
May the devil statistical get me. 

And what I intended to prove from the first 
Is — listen and you shall all hear — 

This planet called earth is still peopled with 
saints 
Though millions do sin every year. 

For a sin every second, when counted all up, 

Is only one sin to each soul, 
One sin in a life-time of thirty long years! 

So Earth ^s not so bad on the whole. 



34^ lone, 



SHE WEAKS A STARRY CROWN^ OF 
DEEDS. 

She wears a starry crown of deeds 

Upon her angel brow: 
She rules a world of lovely thoughts — 

The Lady of the Vow. 

She moves as beauteous as a star 

From good to higher good: 
She is the bright consummate flower 

Of Catholic sisterhood. 



HER BEAUTY IS A CLIMBINa ROSE. 

Her beauty is a climbing rose 
A-clambering o'er my hearty 

A-swooning it in fragrances 
Of every precious sort. 

Her beauty is a golden dew 

That falls upon my brain, 
Till lovely buds of thought upspring 

Like roses after rain. 



And Other Poems. 343 

Her beauty is the evening star, 
My soul the mountain stream 

A-dream, a-rapture with that star, 
A-tremble with its beam. 

Her beauty is a new-blown rose 

My heart a vase of light, 
And should you take the rose away 

That vase were empty quite ! 



ENOUGH! STRIKE DEEP AND LET ME 
GO. 

Enough ! strike deep and let me go : 

My friends all, all are gone, 
Only the foe 

Live on. 

What, man ! fear not ! strike sure and deep ; 

My soul will take its flight. 
Nor haunt thy sleep 

To-night. 

I have outlived my time below. 

And now the law says, die! 
And even so 

Say I. 



344 lone, 

Strike deep, arid part the cord of life! 

I am aweary, friend. 
Of hate and strife. 

Let 's end ! 

My place is in death's chamber hall : 

And may I be forgot 
As my friends are all 

Forgot. 

Why dost thou pause and strangely stare 

Nor whet thy cruel knife? 
What! would thou spare 

My life? 

Too late! they killed me long ago 

When some unkindest one 
In death laid low 

My son. 

time and time again he bled, 

Yet labored bravely on: 
But now he 's dead 

And gone. 

He was the noblest of us all : 

The last we had put by. 
Yet first to fall 

And die. 



And Other Poems. 345 

I know not where his body lies; 

And when I think of him 
These old worn eyes 

Grown dim. 

Well, well, we all must sometime go. 

Each race must needs be run; 
And swift or slow. 

All 's one. 

Strike here, strike deep, and many thanks! 

I see that life 's a game. 
And we drew blanks. 

Take aim ! 

What 's that you say ? Sit still, my heart ! 

Our noble cause hath won. 
And thou — thou art — 

My son! 

No, no ! it were a bitter jest 

To fool an old man so. 
Ah, it were best 

I go. 

How now, you seem to pity me! 

And you would still my fears — 
And set me free — 

With tears! 



346 • lone, 

Gracious God, this is my son! 

And these — He makes amends — 
Friends, friends, each one. 

Dear friends! 



MAMMON. 



Mammon I am! with the power to damn 

The born and the unborn too! 
Supreme I rule over church and school. 

Over Christian and pagan and Jew. 

I am the king of the times, and can bring 

Cassars to kiss my rod; 
And the nations bend while I shape their end 

Even as I were a god. 

No power dare say my authority nay — 
Nor Republic, nor Kingdom, nor State; 

And what I command I have forces at hand 
To accomplish as surely as Fate. 

The young and the old are alike in my hold — 
The infant, the youth, and the sire; 

The tramp in the ditch, and the arrogant rich 
In silken and purple attire. 



And Other Poems. 347 

Under my heel I have ground the seal 
Dividing the right from the wrong. 

And corrupted the gauge of reward and wage, 
And given the earth to the strong. 

I come between the king and his queen 

And the beggar and his drab; 
And I set at strife the husband and wife, 

And teach them to poison or stab. 

I hold in m}^ hand the laws of the land 

And amend and interpret at will; 
And I am the court of last resort. 

And he who offends me, I kill. 

I stand like Fate on the ship of State 

And its wheel is in my hand. 
And calm and wrack are at my back. 

Minions of my command. 

The ;> <)])ey whatever I say 

ThOs.^ . angels are hymning near; 

And I dictate their love and their hate, 
And force their lausrhter or tear. 



'O' 



I tower above the spirit of love 
As the hawk above his prey; 

I loosen and bind the thinker^s mind. 
And shape his thoughts like clay. 



348 lone 

'Twixt the womb and the j^. 
a slave 

Bartered and bought by me; 
I appoint her place of shame or of grace, 

Of honor or infamy. 

With gloves of gold I knead and mold 

The living hearts of men ; 
And I direct what all project — 

Labor of loom or pen. 

the preachers preach and the scholars teach 

And book is added to book. 
And philosophy weaves her gathered sheaves 

And wears her momentous look. 

But I am behind each book and each mind 

As the cause is behind the effect; 
And though fabrics rise till they kiss the skies 

I am their architect. 



MARRIAGE. 



She passed for twenty, he was twenty-two; 
Tlis hair wa:^ slightly red, her eyes were blue; 
They mel, and, meeting, saw the world in each. 
And, meeting once again, found means of speech; 



And Other Poems. 349 

From speech to kisses was a single stride 
And, first he knew, the lady was his bride: 
Indeed, he'd just begun to feel love's thrills 
When he awoke — to pay the lady's bills. 
(Lord ! marriage is a sudden thing at best 
And all is lost before we can protest !) 

But they were young, and though they won- 
dered som.e. 
Each at the other, yet they did not come 
To words of anger till some months had passed, 
WTien love gave place to apathy at last, 
And, growing cold, they each grew critical 
And questioned why they came to wed at all. 
Too late they one another's faults espied; 
Too late ! the bans were read, the knot was tied. 
And now (0 not the last nor yet the first!) 
They needs must make the best — of still the 
worst ! 

She looked before her wedding to those days 
When, bondage-free, she went her maiden ways, 
And wished to heaven she were back once more 
And had her marriage business to do o'er, 
Or, in her mind went o'er the wedding form — 
But 't was another man who held her arm! 
While he — since he had time to think it o'er — 
'T was strange he'd never thought of it before — 
He now remembered she had been as hot 
To marry him as if it were a plot, 



350 lone, 

As free of favors as a wishing ring. 
As light to snare as bird without a wing. 
And had she been as free with other men. 
As liberal of favors — had she then? 
By heaven ! she was cheaper for the thought, 
And if 't were so indeed, then she was naught. 
Another month and they had quarreled out- 
right, 
He stirred by jealousy and she by spite; 
Some things they told each other that 't were 

best 
That they had whispered in a serpent's nest. 
Then 'gan the daily feud and hourly jar. 
The open rupture and admitted war. 
The cat-and-dog-life of the wedded state 
When passion dies and love is turned to hate. 
Their home became a place to keep their clothes. 
To part as strangers or to meet as foes, 
To leave the baby (when the baby came). 
And had no other use, it seemed, or claim. 
Then infidelity rose up unclean. 
That scarlet shape long felt ere yet 't is seen — 
Her lover found her husband false as dice. 
Whereat she sought a lawyer for advice. 
A suit was then begun and truth let loose 
To play the very devil without truce. 
The wonder grew that things had gone so far 
Before they brought their troubles to the bar; 



And Other Poems. 351 

She charged, he charged; complaint and cross- 
complaint 
Till scandal held its nostrils and grew faint. 

Then on a certain day the case was tried, 
The knot that bound them legally untied, 
She got the child, he paid her counsel fee. 
And each, according to the law, was free. 
He paid her alimony once or twice 
Then, being shrewd, he took his own advice 
And left his troubles and his state behind 
For parts unknown and more unto his mind. 
She found another father for her child. 
An easy-going fellow, weak and mild: 
They lived together twenty years or so 
Then died or parted, which, I do not know. 



IF HALF THE EICHES SPENT ON WAR. 

If half the riches spent on war 

Were spent upon the mind, 
Then Heaven would not seem so far. 

Nor Fate would be so blind. 

If half the forethought given wealth 

Were given to the soul, 
Our brows would press the crown of health, 

And millions sick be whole. 



352 lone, 

If half the labor spent in dress 
Were spent to banish grime. 

Then Beauty would rise up and bless 
The spirit of the time. 

If half the money spent on drink 
Were spent on cultured taste. 

More men would be like men, I think, 
More women would be chaste. 

If half the watch from barracks kept 
Were kept from Christian shrine. 

The angels, though they sometimes wept, 
Would weep from joy divine. 

If half the prisons built for men 
Were built for training youth. 

Men would be nearer Honor, then. 
And Law be nearer Truth. 

If half that 's spent on things that pass 

Were spent upon the soil, 
Then women need not slave like brass 

Nor little children moil. 

If half that 's wasted on the sword 

Were spent upon the pen. 
What living truths we should record. 

What poets would be then. 



And Other Poems. 3^3 



ODE TO THE AIRSHIP. 

Thou rare soft-soaring car, wherein we feel 

The waking-dream of wings at last come true; 
Thou marriage-graceful of bright silk and steel 

Climbing the highways of the steadfast blue; 
Not rosy Bacchus nor his merry bards, 

In Tempe or in Thessaly divine, 
E'er urged pleasure-wards 

Chariot one-half so luxurious as thine! 

Rare is a mount upon a mettled steed. 

Rare is a canter through the dewy mom. 
Rare are all joys equestrian indeed; 

Ah, rare the throne behind the saddle-horn! 
Rare are the motions of a white-winged yacht 

Parting the spindrift of the purple tide. 
When days are sultry-hot 

Save where the bright sea opens cool and wide ! 

But thou, oh latest birth of speed and flight. 

Intelligence of woven silk, and fire. 
Thy spell is rarer still: thou dost invite 

Entirely, and, inviting, never tire ! 
The hand that grasps thy lever hath sure hold 

Of Pleasure's silken girdle; and who ride 
Thee up the morning gold 

Sweep through bright gates elysian open wide! 



354 ^o"^» 



WHEN BEAUTY BUILDS BENEATH THE 
STARS. 

When Beauty builds beneath the stars 

A temple all divine. 
The Poet is the architect 

Who shapes the high design. 

Before the doing is the dream. 
Before the work, the plan; 

Without the Poet what were then 
The proudest artisan? 

His pencil drew entempled Greece 

Upon the hearts of men 
A thousand years ere Pericles 

Was Athen's citizen. 



LENORE. 



Lenore, was her name! 
From worlds above she came: 
She brought me Eden iil her face 

And heaven in her eyes. 
And for a little blessed space 

We dwelt in paradise: 



And Other Poems. 355 

tiien the white-rose bloom, 

Aslant her marble tomb, 
Bar'd out the precious sight of her 
And shut my heaven up in the voiceless sepulchre ! 



CAN THIS BE HOME, SWEET HOME? 

The hands that rocked me in the cradle 

I have crossed for evermore; 
The face that watched my homeward coming 

Watches no more at the door: 
She is dead, my darling mother. 

And I wander through our home; 
But the face I seek is sleeping 

Underneath the grassy loam ! 

Can this be home, sweet home, 

With mother dead and gone? 
Can this be that dear haven 

That yesterday she called Sweet Home, 
Where yesterday she sang Sweet Home? 

Her touch could charm away all sadness. 

Her hair was soft as sleep; 
She brought a smile to crown my gladness. 

She left me not alone to weep. 



3S6 lone, 

I've had companioHs, but my mother 
Was a friend before them all; 

And I thought her most secure 

When she heard the angels call ! 

Can this be home, sweet home. 
With mother dead and gone? 

Can this be that dear haven 
That yesterday she called Sweet Home, 

Where yesterday she sang Sweet Home? 



FANCY'S BARK. 

bright Fancy, come to me 

O'er the deep blue western sea. 

Come upon the salt airs sweet 

While the spray drifts 'round my feet; 

Come, bright Fancy, be my guide 

O'er the golden sunset tide! 

Love was born beside the sea 

Where I stand and call to thee. 

But I seek not Love to-day, 

Mocking me through driven spray-— 

What is wanton Love to me 

While my bark is on the sea. 

While each chaliced wave shall hold 

A star of trembling gold; 



And Other Poems. 357 

While the sun sliall sink to rest 
On the sea's dark-heaving breast, 
While the bright, soft-pacing moon 
Shall attain her queenly noon 
Right above a stately mast 
Piercing to the starry vast? 
bright Fancy, hasten then 
From the shores of Darien — 
Must I sail the sea no more, 
Ever chained to this bleak shore, 
Who am drunk on driven foam 
From my dark-heaving home? 



Now you fade again, bleak shore. 
Now I sail the sea once more! 
Blow, ye airs, straight to my heart, 
Fill, ye sails, and do your part; 
O'er the mountains of the sea, 
Down its valleys, blue and free, 
I and Fancy, on and on. 
Sail toward the gates of dawn. 
Lo ! I hear the sea-bird's call 
Like a voice from heaven fall. 
Sweeter, sweeter, near to pain 
Like a dead voice heard again: 
While upon my list'ning ear 
Fall those sounds I love so dear — 



3S8 rone^ 

Sound of wind and sound of tide. 
Of the waters flowing wide 
'Round the brow of Fancy's bark ; 
Sounds that but old sailors hark; 
Sounds but to the sailor dear; 
Sounds that sailors love and fear! 
Oh, I hear and I rejoice. 
And each sound is as a voice 
Calling to its sister sound 
That the sailor has been found. 
That he hath come home again 
Sailing on past Darien, 
Sailing o'er the drifting foam 
Of his dark-heaving home. 



A MEMORY. 



He puts aside his playthings all 
His soldiers, blocks, and drum. 

And holding out his baby hands 
He begs his mother come. 



I feel his arms about my neck. 
His cheek against my cheek — 

So drowsy are his rosy lips 
They murmur and not speak. 



And Other Poems. 359 

I press him closer to my heart. 

And smooth his curly hair. 
Then lay him in his little cot 

And leave him sleeping there. 

He wakes and calls me back again 

And begs some promised toy; 
And I — I grant him anything — 

My sweet, dead little boy! 



TRUTH. 



The naked Truth was in the cold — 

The Poet took it in 
And clothed it in bright mail of gold 

As 't were his dearest kin. 

And fed its lips on honey-dew 

Distilled of freshest song; 
Then led it forth where Error drew 

Her python length along. 

The youngest scholar knows the rest — 
How Truth smote Error cold! 

But honor unto him who drest 
The Truth in mail of gold. 



360 lone, 

SCANDAL. 

Scandal has quitted her perch as the falcon. 

And flaps her cruel pinions above. 
And hunteth the Dove of my passion that soareth 

A-high in the heavens of love. 

And Gladness is frightened away as the turtle 

Is frightened away by the hawk. 
And all the bright brood of sweet Pleasure is 
silent 

As linnets when hooting owls stalk. 



RHYME. 



What strange philosophies rhyme leads us to 
Only the poets know — the minstrel crew. 
— T was Samuel Butler once upon a time 
Said that the rudder of all verse is rhyme. 
But nowhere has old Butler set it down, 
(Perhaps he knew, but feared the church and 

crown!) 
How that in this wide world of yours and mine 
Somewhere may be religions called divine. 
And schools and systems and philosophies 
And faiths that move the heart and bend the 

knees. 



And Other Poems. 361 

Bom of a poet's thought, which thought sublime 
Was forced upon the poet by his rhyme. 
And by him accepted for the rhyme at stake. 
And not for truth^s or inspiration's sake. 



I KNOW, I KNOW WHERE THE SUNBEAMS 
GO. 

I know, I know where the sunbeams go 

Whenever the day-star dies; 
Into the face of my love they go, 

To sparkle again in her eyes. 

I know where the violets all have gone 

When winter is in the grove; 
Into the veins of my love they go 

To pulse in purple and mauve. 

I know, I know where the melody goes 
When the harper doth cease to rejoice; 

Into the throat of my love it goes. 
To awaken again in her voice. 

I know where the musk of the rose is gone 
When the rose is withered in death; 

Into the lips of my love 't is gone. 
And rises again in her breath. 



362 lone, 

I know, I kno^v where all kind .thoughts go 

When the thinker has given them o'er; 
Into the heart of my love they go. 
To dwell in that heart evermore. 



THE OLD FOLKS ARE GROWIISTG OLD, 
OLD! 

The old folks are talking of buying two graves. 
Two graves on the hillside so cold; 

Two graves side-by-side far out under the stars! 
the old folks are growing old, old! 

The old folks are talking of buying a stone, 
A stone to be placed o'er their mold; 

A stone that will mark where they sleep the long 
sleep ! 
the old folks are growing old, old! 

The old folks were out in the graveyard to-day. 
The sun was just setting in gold; 

They walked hand-in-hand and they chose out two 
graves ! 
the old folks are growing old, old! 



And Other Poems. 363 

"Dear Mary/' said Robert, "well sleep side by 
side 

Here under the dew and the mold. 
And awaken together in the smile of the Lord!" 

the old folks are growing old, old! 



THE LAND OF WASHINGTON. 

say where is the land of Washington, 
The land of Franklin and of Jefferson ; 
That pleasant land along a pleasant sea 
Where Freedom sprung, where laughed bright 

Liberty, 
Where honor shone more splendidly than gold 
And manhood was not bought nor statehood sold? 

1 cannot find it on the world's wide map 
That lies outspread before me on my lap ! 

'T is not in Europe! No; though Thessaly 

The Beautiful is there; and Arcady, 

Bright Arcady with all her lakes and rills. 

Her verdant valleys and her wooded hills ! 

But, stay, perliaps it northward lies by chance 

Amidst the pleasant vales of sunny France, 

Or southward in the land of Italy 

Which dips an hundred cities in an azure sea! 

Ah, no! the kindly land of Washington 

Reposes not beneath Italian sun. 



364 lone, 

Nor can I find it in bright Thessaly, 
Nor yet in France nor sunny Arcady. 
Then does it lie on the Castilian shore 
By Biscay's Bay or by Gibraltar's door? 
Ah, no, not here ! Nor northward on the isles 
Where Briton rules o'er her enkingdomed miles. 
'T is not in Europe ! Nay ; nor in Araby, 
Nor Persia, nor along the Indian sea, 
Nor in that Empire wintry as the moon 
And one half hidden like the distant moon, 
Russia the vast; nor yet in Egypt's land 
Where Cheops looks forever o'er a world of sand ! 
No, not in Africa can it be found 
This land of Washington, this holy ground; 
Nor in Australia ; nor the islands that surround 
That larger Isle ; nor where the Great Wall runs 
Sheer by the Tartar Empire with her myriad sons ! 
So look I elsewhere on the world's wide map 
Which lies outspread before me on my lap. 
And search out every land — aye, every one — 
To find the kindly land of Washington; 
But nowhere can I find it, though I seek 
From hot Brazil to Greenland cold and bleak! 
Yet, stay, here is a country broad and vast, 
The mightiest, the richest, and the last; 
America! we call it on the map — 
America! a name for gods to clap! 



And Other Poems. 365 

The States United and the States supreme, 

Time's chief est work and history's noblest theme! 

sa}^, is this the land of Washington, 

The land of Franklin and of Jefferson? 

Can this, our Country, be that holy seat 

Where darkness sank reproved and tyrants met 

defeat ? 
That young Republic, lit with Freedom's star, 
That loosed Religion's chain and broke the feudal 

bar? 
Ah, no ! it seems, but yet it cannot be — 
Too great, too wide, is the diversity ! 
The land of Washington, though thousands fell. 
Was not Oppression's seat, nor Mammon's hell; 
It was not eaten with the golden-rot; 
The hungry were but few — those few were not for- 
got: 
It sweetened fifty years of history 
And smells sweet yet ! So then it cannot be 
That this, our Country, is that kindly land 
Where Washington once stood and now his works 

should stand. 
Ah, no ! though fondly we would have them one 
This land is not the land of Washington! 
Here Mammon rules; Oppression has her hold; 
And woe to him who is botli poor and old I 
Here men, like vultures, in high places sit, 
And, having gorged, gorge on and will not quit ! 



366 lone, 

Here Opportunity has closed her gate 
And barred out thousands that on merit wait ! 
Here nothing greater is than minted gold 
Saving more gold! Here honor 's bought and 

sold 
And rogues and caitiffs feast while Virtue shakes 

with cold! 
The very rich here fear the greater rich, 
The poor fear all ! Here principle 's a ditch 
Wherein to stumble and be trod upon. 
But damned hypocrisy 's a level lawn 
Where millions move secure though hell itself 

should yawn ! 
The land of Washington ! It is not here 
In this, our Country; nor this country near! 
In this, our Country, this, our native land. 
With blue skies o'er, blue seas on either hand, 
Eternal springs in her bosom and gold in all her 

sand, 
We rob the toiler in his mother's womb, 
We rob him in his sickness, in his tomb. 
We steal his widow^'s labor, and his orphans' doom ! 
then, this cannot be the land I seek. 
The land we often hear of, often speak. 
The dear, the kindly land of Washington, 
The land of Franklin and of Jefferson! 
So putting from my hands the world's wide map 
Which lay outspread before me on my lap. 



And Other Poems. 367 

I write it down in sorrow yet in truth— 

The land of Washington, beloved of youth, 

Of age thrice honored and thrice dear in song, 

Has vanished from the earth these ages long: 

Perhaps ere Plato's time, or Ptolemy's, 

It sunk with bright Atlantis into the purple seas, 

Or else, removed by centuries of time, 

Long leagues of space, beneath some other clime 

Far distant, say in yonder golden star, 

It had its radiant seat and dazzled from afar! 



GLADNESS. 



Gladness has come as the robin returns. 

And sings in my garden again! 
The robin whose breast with her happy heart burns, 

Eare lover of children and men. 



Right under my window she tumeth her note. 

Her note which is sweetest of all. 
And floods the bright heaven from one spirit 
throat. 

And comes to my hand at my call. 



368 lone, 

And m}^ heart like a mocking-bird mocks her all 
day 

And wakes through the niglit with her glee — 
For love is the measure and rhythm of her lay, 

The burden, the chord, and the key! 



LIBERTY LIVES : HER SOLDIER IS DEAD. 

Rose of the Valley, 
Rose of the Vale, 

1 found thee all blushing 
But left thee all pale. 

I brought thee the story 

Of war o'er the sea, 
Of death on the waters 

And death on the lea. 

I brought thee Love's message 

From over the wave, 
A curl from his forehead 

A flower from his grave. 

He faced the baptism 

Of fire and of lead— 
And liberty lives 

But her soldier is dead! 



And Other Poems. 369 

LOVE. 

Love makes the world over, 

Love keeps the world young; 

And love is the sweetest song 
Sung or unsung. 

Love is a sorrow. 

And Love is a cheat: 
Love makes us to hunger. 

Then takes 'way the meat. 

Love is a higher life 

Lived in this one; 
The only Elysium 

Under the sun. 

Love 's a contradiction 

And Love is a fraud: 
For Love we cast heaven by 

And worship a gaud. 

Love takes the man pris'ner, 

Then sets his soul free 
To soar in a higher world 

With angel company. 

Love wakes the thick dullard 

And puts him to school; 
Love sits the philosopher 

On the dunce-stool. 



370 lone, 

Love, oJi what art thou — 
Angel or devil? 

Brightest of bright things 
Or blackest of evil? 



MY QUEEN". 

Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 

Queen of those Isles and of me, 
The air that blows from the sweet tuberose 

Was never as sweet as thee, 
Nor the dulcet note from the oriole's throat 

Can match thy harmony. 

Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 
With the airs of Heaven thou art fanned, 

And the flowers they press the hem of thy dress 
Whenever you walk in the land. 

And like a flame of fire the rose climbs higher 
Striving to touch thy hand. 

Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles 

And arbiter of my fate. 
Thou hast shaken all care from thy sun-bright 
hair 

And put off the girdle of state. 
And I follow after the voice of thy laughter 

And come to thy garden gate. 



And Other Poems. 371 

We meet on the green, my Love and my Queen, 

And the rose is between us two; 
A red, red rose that swings and glows 

Like a censer of perfume and dew; 
While unbeholden from the distance golden 

The oriole sings his adieu. 

A moment you stand with outstretched hand 

And welcome me debonair, 
Then all proud and pale thou drawest thy veil 

Concealing thy brow so fair; 
But ah the soft lace you draw o'er thy face 

Leaves thy warm bosom all bare. 

rose look away! heart look away! 

oriole cease thy strain 
Till my Queen shall veil her bosom all pale 

With its purple warmth of vein; 
Till the sweet unrest of my young Queen's breast 

Is hid in her silken train ! 

Quickly you turn and your sweet cheeks burn 

With virgin modesty through; 
Quickly you veil thy bosom now pale 

Through all its veins of blue — 
Fate made thee a queen with stately mien 

But made thee a woman too. 



372 lone, 

my sweet girl Qneen, what eye hath seen 
The path that leads to thy heart ? 

Not the eagle above nor the homing dove 
Aught of that path can impart; 

Nor the fleeting hind that path can find 
With all her cunninsj and art. 



For there *s a path that the eagle hath 
Seen never from the clouds above, 

Nor the lark in its flight nor the bird of night. 
Nor hind, nor hart, nor dove — 

The secret path, the wonderful path 
That leads to a woman's love. 

That path is known to brave men alone 

Who do their honor no wrong, 
And though I were blind that path I shall find 

That leads to thy heart along; 
Nor the gods shall say my spirit nay 

As I take that path with song. 

Ah, well I ween that thou art a queen, 

gracious lady of mine. 
Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 

And queen by a right divine; 
As high and proud as yon golden cloud 

Trailing its robes of sunshine! 



And Other Poems. 373 

But the poet springs of a line of kings. 

Bom in the purple of song, 
And I shall not wait for robes of state 

Nor fear that I do thee wrong. 
For this name of mine is as high as thine 

And my kingly line is as long. 

I have followed after the voice of thy laughter 

And come to thy wicket gate; 
I have bribed the warden of this sun-bright garden 

With a bribe that w^as passionate; 
And now I wist to my love thou wilt list, 

arbiter of my fate. 

Often you hark to the sweet meadowlark 

Singing from heaven blue, 
And thine ear it hath heard the whistling black- 
bird. 

And the note of the oriole too: 
Then need I to fear you '11 not lend an ear 

Unto a love that is true? 

the love of a man is more precious than 

An anthem at heaven's gate; 
Than whistling blackbird, or the music that 's stir'd 

In the oriole's heart by its mate: 
'T is no fleeting note from a dumb creature's 
throat 

But a human cry passionate. 



374 Tone, 

Queen of the Isles of Perfume and Smiles, 

Queen of those Isles and of me, 
The grass lies sweet under our feet 

And sweet is the lilac tree, 
The red rose swings and the oriole sings 

And my heart goeth out to thee. 

Then lift the warm lace from thy queenly face 
And soften this silence with a glance; 

For my heart must ache and my heart must break 
While you keep me in ignorance: 

Say thou wilt be more than queen to me. 
And swift be thy utterance. 

Then this love I have nurst like the white rose 
shall burst 
And fill all thy path with light ; 
And my heart shall be a new kingdom for thee 

To rule over day and night; 
And the strength of my arm shall shield thee 
from harm 
Till heaven burst on thy sight. 



OVER THE HILLS TO THE POORHOUSE. 

Over the hills to the poorhouse 

Love is going to-day. 
And all the flowers are weeping 

That bloom along his way. 



And Other Poems. 375 

Over the hills to the poorhouse. 

Over the hills of June, 
And all the birds are silent, 

And the brooks are out of tune. 

Over the hills to the poorhouse. 

Over the western hills, 
Through the sweet forget-me-nots 

And the yellow daffodils. 

Over the hills to the poorhouse 

Love is going to-day. 
And Mammon is going before him 

Showing him on his way ! 



WAR. 

Of War, I sing; of bloody war and long; 
War 'gainst the weak and war amongst the strong : 
Eed war, that runs the rivers thick with blood, 
M^asting the nations like another Flood ! 
War crimson, lurid, deep and damned as hell ; 
War, certain war where'er two brothers dwell. 
Of war, that great prophetic war, I sing, 
Whose vultures even now are on the wing; 
The last, the worst, the blackest of all wars. 
Whose smoke, ascending, shall blot out the stars ! 



376 lone, 

The hour was wintten and tlio hour ha^; come — ■ 
The world's four winds bring beating of the drum. 
The blare of trumpet, and the sound of fife. 
Foregathering all nations to the strife ! 
Not Europe now alone, but all the earth 
Comes forth to battle ! Like some monster birth 
Of coil in coil and scale overlapping scale, 
Blinding high heaven with its glisf ning mail 
It issues forth ! God, but to behold 
Would make the blood of Lucifer run cold! 



WHAT DREAMS UNTO THE RICH WILL 
COME ! 

What dreams unto the rich will come! 

I dreamt I dwelt within a slum 

Where loathsome things in human guise 

Slunk loathsomely 'neath loathsome skies ; 

A nefarious, accursed spot 

That on hell itself would cast a darker blot ! 

Hard by a city (thickly sown 
With golden steeples) overgrown 
With hovels as with blasted brake 
It lay, and heaven seemed to ache 
Above it, and the moon^s dim flood 
Changed in its thick and murky air to blood. 



J 



And Other Poems. 377 

Methought I came (nor came alone!) 
From palace wrought in j^recious stone, 
Down, down, (as one descends to hell!) 
Into this slum where horrors dwell: 
This noisome, dark, and damned place 
With human horror for a populace. 

Nor came alone ! My wife and child 

Clung to me: bright their eyes and wild, 

All pale their lips, and ah, they shook 

Like slaves with cold; and in their look 

Despair I saw in its extreme. 

And, writhing, cursed God in my sleep and dream. 

Shame first we met ! Shame face to face, 
And shame's familiar, foul disgrace; 
Then misery, then wretched want. 
Then hunger — hunger stern and gaunt! 
Then came one tempting, tempting me 
To traffic with my daughter's chastity! 

God, how I wrestled in my dream 
With that which w^as not, yet did seem: 
How sternly did I struggle then, 
All men against me, 'gainst all men: 
'Set in that hour of sleep learned more 
Than e'er in all my waking hours before. 



378 lone, 

I learned how millions daily dwell 

In torment out-tormenting hell: 

I learned what living costs the poor 

When gold is to be had no more: 

I learned the price that thousands pay 

To keep themselves in bread day unto day. 

Then, waking, bowed my fevered head 

Ashamed of mine own wealth, and said: 

God, this very dream has left 

Me sickened and of peace bereft, 

What then to feeling souls must be 

The stern, the black, the damned reality! 



WHY? 



Why is her face so fair to me? 

Why is her mouth so sweet? 
Why is her smile so rare to me. 

Her beauty so complete? 

Why is she all divine to me, 
A red, red rose, new blown? 

Why is her kiss like wine to me? 
Her voice like music's own? 



And Other Poems. 379 

Why is she like the sun to me, 

Or like the golden dawn? 
Why is it darkness unto me 

Whenever she is gone? 

Why are her wants supreme to me. 

My constant, one employ? 
Why is she all a dream to me, 

A wonder and a joy? 

Why is her hair so bright to me. 

All curls, all silk, all gold ? 
Why are her eyes a light to me 

To guide me and uphold? 

Why is her laudi so much to me 

It sets me all astir? 
Why are her glances such to me 

That I would die for her? 



FORTUNE-SICK. 

I would open my heart as I open a door 
And welcome the Angel of Death, 

For I'm weary of being unhappy and poor. 
Of drawing life's pain-laden breath. 



380 lone, 

I am weary of toiling that others may rest, 
Of starving that others may feast: 

I am sick of a Fortune that makes me its jest, 
Its gold-burdened, thistle-fed beast. 

I am cut to the heart with the cheat of it all, 
The shame, the unkindness and wrong: 

With the height and the depth and the breadth of 
that wall 
Dividing the weak from the strong. 

I am mad with a madness that 's not of the brain. 

And surgery never can heal. 
And I chafe at my thoughts as a man at a chain 

That bindeth him unto the wheel. 

1 am sick of the mouthings and empty advice 
Of those who have never known want — 

As they counsel the poor, o'er their wine and their 
spice. 
Their words are a blow and a taunt. 

my God for a century, oh for a land 
Where men in the sunlight might grow 

Like the trees that touch heaven, and evermore 
stand 
Untroubled by shock or by blow. 



And Other Poems. 381 



ONE OF THE MILLIONS. 

The stunted infant of a stnnted pair, 

In squalor bred, in sickness and despair. 

His eyes first op'ning on a factory's red glare. 

Untimely issued from his mother's womb, 
Who e'en in childbirth labored at the loom 
To earn the daily crust that kept her from the 
tomb. 

One limb was twisted, and an iron wheel 
Glared on his bosom like an angry seal — 
The birthmark of this child crushed under Mam- 
mon's heel. 

A beast of burden bom the self-same night 

Had scarce so early quit its mother's sight 

To bear the yoke of labor as this stunted wight. 

With speech unformed and limbs unschooled in 

play, 
He quit the hovel of loose drift and clay 
Which he called "home" because it kept the rain 

away, 



382 lone, 

And like a brute made in our human form 
Went down to labor with that motley swarm 
Which digs and delves the coal that keeps the 
gentle warm. 

(0 Poverty, thou art an hellish thing. 

You widow every hope ; each bosom wring ; 

Thy dullest barb is sharper than the adder's sting. 

Betwixt the black earth and its nadir fire 
Men slave like beasts to gain a meager hire, 
And all because of thee, thou wolf who dost not 
tire!) 

He labored in the darkness of the mine. 
This being born with human face divine 
And in his heart the tracings of a high design, 

Until his speech grew brutish and he spoke 
Like brute to brute, and through the damp and 

smoke 
His face glared forth like some strange animal in 

yoke. 

(Nor call him "slave" — the very word is shame; 
Call him "a toiler, poor and without blame": 
Yet slavery 's as bitter by any other name !) 



And Other Poems. 383 

And he was numbered like a branded brute 
By those who ruled his body absolute 
Nor recognized his soul, a shriveled thing and 
mute. 

But wherefore should he rave? What boots a 

name 
To one whose only record is of shame, 
A poor untutored beast but fit for gas and flame ? 

The sun in heaven seemed not made for him. 
And Beauty mocked him as with twisted limb 
He dragged himself from sleep to labors cold and 
grim. 

'T is labor that 's the father of the man 
And damning that you damn the artisan — 
'T was labor that had warped him from the nobler 
plan. 

A labor bestial-like; toil terrible 

That bodes for neither slave nor master well; 

A daily hell of toil where wheels of brass rebel. 

And so he sweated for his daily hire, 
For that strained little which the poor require 
To keep them at their toil and feed the living 
fire. 



384 lone, 

One of the millions, the countless multitude 
Whom fortune shuns, whom all the joys elude. 
Whose numbers daily failing, daily are renewed. 

Nor Beauty's self, nor Beauty's name he knew — 
Ah, what to him were flowers midst the dew, 
Who was denied the fruit that midst those flowers 
grew ! 

The starved flesh dies, but starve the human mind 
And it grows rankly like some monster kind 
And ranges wide as hell, corru]3t and cruel and 
blind. 

And daily he was starved of every truth. 
To grow in evil as he grew from youth. 
His ignorance rankling in him like the rabid's 
tooth. 

From curses first he learned the name of God, 
This wretched human, and he daily trod 
All goodness underfoot as if it were a clod. 

Some thought him damned ere his nativity, 
As weeds are weeds and cannot other be 
Though angels water them with tears of sanctity. 

But he who slaves unceasing save when crime 
Breaks through his labors for a little time 
Rears all its serpent-aspect and aspires to climb, 



And Other Poems. 38 c; 

What can he know of sweetness or of light, 
Of beauty's largess or of manhood's height; 
What good can move him or what tenderness in- 
vite? 

The son of Caesar, by a she-wolf bred, 
tlpon all fours will go with wolfish tread, 
His vision narrowed to prey, the godhood in him 
dead. 



And so perhaps less sorely but as sure 
Did wolfish, bestial-like environ lure 
The godhead from this man and every good ob- 
scure. 

His youth was scarcely over ere he slew 

The overseer of his motley crew 

And deep into a shaft the bloody body threw. 

The deed was bitter, but the wages sweet — 
The dead man's hoarded gold lay at his feet — 
And blood is only blood, but gold is drink and 
meat! 

With eager hands he seized upon the gold 
And left the murdered man all stark and cold. 
With face upturned to God and frightful to be- 
hold, 



386 lone, 

Then westward fled before the rising sun, 
The deed of murder pondered, plotted, done, 
His own damnation sure, society's begun. 



Now he, who for a season without toil 
Has lived on stolen gold, no more will moil, 
And sweat and slave, but like the tiger will de- 
spoil. 

So when this murderer's purse had emptied been 
Of all the profits of his deadly sin. 
He thrust still deeper in crime his hand already 
in, 

And if by chance there yet remained as guest 
One spark divine within his brutish breast. 
His second murder damned it blacker than the 
rest. 

(0 Muse, shall you record that awful crime 
And make an instrument of verse and rhyme 
To blazon down our shame into our children's 
time? 

May song forbid ! It was too damnable. 

Too black for those black records such as tell 

Of deeds delighting fiends and carried out in hell. 



And Other Poems. 387 

Leave it to silence and the wiser wrath 
Of Him who both an hour and angel hath 
To flame the sword of heaven o'er the guilty's 
path.) 

Thus he, the wretched human of our song, 
From brutish labor turned to brutish wrong, 
And ever swifter, further, he was borne along. 

Criminality he made his trade and jest, 
And grew to love the darker life and quest, 
His heart-latch ever out for crime to gain his 
breast. 

Nor damned himself alone, but turned to teach 
Evil to all who came within the reach 
Of that most filthy thing, his brutish human 
speech. 



SHE IS FAIR TO LOOK UPON. 

she is fair to look upon 
But fairer when you know her, 

And though your knowledge may increase 
You never shall outgrow her. 



388 lone, 

Her beauty grows upon one's eyes. 
Her goodness on one's feeling: 

Her very step has that in it 

Which brings the spirit healing. 

1^11 not compare her to a saint. 
For she ^s too sweetly human; 

Nor to an angel, tall and bright, 
For she is all a woman. 

ril not compare this maid at all; 

Suffice she 's fair and saintly, 
And brightest words are dusty glass 

And mirror her but faintlv. 



I SAW HER LOVELY FACE BUT ONCE. 

I saw her lovely face but once. 

Yet shall forget it never; 
The curls that clustered 'round her brow 

Shall haunt my heart forever. 

I scarcely knew how fair she was 
Nor how her beauty moved me, 

Till she was lost amid the throng- 
Then all my heart reproved me. 



I 



I 



And Other Poems. 389 

I stretch out yearning arms for her 

But cannot draw her near me: 
I breathe a me:^sai';e on the air. 

But ah, she cannot hear me. 

did I know her dwelling place 
How soon I'd come unto her; 

did I know her lovely name 
I'd seek her out and woo her. 



WHERE IS MY LITTLE GIRL TO-NIGHT? 

God ! where is my little girl to-night, 

The daughter of my home — 
Far, far beyond a father's aching sight 

whither does she roam ? 

My love for her was all idolatrous, 

She was her mother's pride. 
Until she fell — and went away from us! 

God, that she had died! 

We hoped to marry her to some good man 

To be his lovely wife. 
And dear unto her mother was our plan. 

And dear to me as life. 



390 lone, 

But devils (0 that I had understood!) 

In saintly raiment came — 
And she is fallen from her womanhood 

And bears a nameless name! 

O God, where is she wandering to-night- 
Down what great city's street? 

What open doors, aglare with hell, invite 
Her weary, wayward feet? 



SOMEWHERE. 



Though we are worn with wearinesa 
And sick at heart and sad. 

And life seems only dreariness. 
Somewhere the world is glad. 

Somewhere the clouds are lifting 
And the winds have ceased to bloi*^^ 

And the golden light is drifting 
Upon the world below. 

Though we have lost the feeling 

And faith in God divine. 
Somewhere there 's always kneeling 

A soul at Christian shrine. 



And Other Poems. 391 

Though the knell is tolling, tolling. 

Over a love our own. 
Somewhere are sweethearts strolling 

And the rose is newly blown. 

Somewhere a babe is waking 

Within his little cot, 
Though our own heart is breaking 

For a lamb who waketh not. 

Though all our nights are appalling 
And our days are filled with care. 

The smile of God is falling 
Somewhere, always somewhere ! 



THE POETS' QUEEN. 

She sprung from Beauty's immemorial line. 
And was herself the fairest of her race ; 
And ever to her stately dwelling place 

The minstrels came, like palmers to a shrine. 

Where Hesper is the evening star in June, 
Westward she dwelt amid an island estate; 
There Neptune's steed champed at her sea-girt 
gate 

And regal palms shook to tlie silver moon. 



39^ 



one 



Beneath her latticed casement, sweet with balm, 
The narcissus and the rose first heaved the sod, 
And Love — the poets sung — awaked a God 

Amid her garden of perpetual palm. 

Her beauty was of earth as roses are — 

Mortal, but nothing that might lead astray: 
The glory of her eyes held sovereign sway. 

But blasted none, like some bright, evil star. 

A splendid pride was softened in her mien — 
She bended as the stately lily bends 
When silver dew upon the field descends. 

And bows that flower low, but not to stain. 

Her eyes were bright as stars set for a sign 
In heaven, and in her soft-clustering hair 
The Spirit and the Love that made her fair 

Had left the fragrance of its breath divine. 

Forever open and forever bright. 

Her sculptured gates looked out upon the sea; 

Fit entrance to her halls where Poetry 
Dwelt like presence all compact of light. 

Queen of the Poets and Olympus' Xine, 

Oft would she walk at twilight's pensive close 
Wliere silver fountains like young palms uprose. 

And hark unto bright ^olus in the pine. 



And Other Poems. 393 

Or with the morn, soft-op ning as tlie rose, 
And with the rose's vermeil flush and light. 
She took her harp and bid adieu to night. 

While chord by chord the stars sunk to repose. 

But, lo ! long seasons she has been at rest. 
And no more shall inspire the minstrel brood. 
And given are her isles to solitude 

Like a dead Orion within the west. 



VIOLA, 



rare is the maiden, Viola, 
And healing is her touch ; 

And I feel the words I utter 
But when I sing of such. 

How gracious is her presence. 
How fair her lovely frame, 

My heart can never utter. 
And poetry hath no name. 

To the stars of bright midsummer. 

With orient pearl anew. 
The rose is linked, and its sweetness 

Is blown abroad with the dew. 



394 Io"e, 

But there is a breath more fragrant 
Than on the midsummer air — 

The breath of the Loves that linger 
In the dusk of Viola's hair. 

And were I not always a poet 
I were a poet this once, 

To sing of the maiden, Viola, 
And the light of her countenance. 



THE END. 



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